Travels
by wild wolf free17
Summary: "Supernatural" crossovers with differing fandoms. Updated sporadically. Up now: Highlander
1. Shrek

**Each of these will be "Supernatural" crossover of some sort. Each will standalone and have warnings.**

* * *

**Title**: Not in Kansas

**Fandom**: "Supernatural"/_Shrek_ crossover

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun.

**Warnings**: spoilers for all three _Shrek_ movies

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 480

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Dedication**: _raligh_, who requested the Winchester boys meeting _Shrek_ characters.

* * *

"Sammy," Dean says, deadpan. "We're not in Kansas anymore."

"Dude," Sam replies. "That quit bein' funny when I was ten."

Dean snickers.

.

They walk down the street side-by-side, naming every fairy tale they see. Dean's ahead by twenty points—one for damsels in distress, two for villains, three for heroes—when he sees _her_.

"Dude, it's Mulan!" he hisses at Sam, staring in shock.

Sam glances over. "I didn't think she was a fairy tale," he muses. "Weird."

.

The sign proclaims Far Far Away; Dean snorts. "Didn't think we traveled through universes just to see the fantasy version of Hollywood."

Sam openly laughs. "You were really expecting something else?"

Dean's answering smile is sunrise. "Nope."

.

"Dude." Dean freezes in the street, staring.

Sam swings around instantly, follows his gaze. His mouth drops open in shock. "Is that…"

"The Gingerbread Man." Dean's voice is full of wonder. "The fucking _Gingerbread__ Man._" He steps forward. "Awesome."

.

They end up at the palace, of course, where King Arthur is holding a tournament. Sam enters the Rhyming match, whereas Dean signs up for the Hand-to-Hand combat.

Dean wins against all comers, even an ogre, but Sam loses to Pinocchio, who then loses to Rumpelstiltskin. The Winchesters are invited, along with all the contestants, to a feast; Sam says they shouldn't go, that they need to go back, but Dean overrules him, playing the big brother card.

Sam ends up next to a Spanish cat wearing boots, but Dean has to sit beside a talking donkey that doesn't know when or how to shut up. By the time the appetizers are taken away, Dean's barely restraining himself from shooting.

"You wanted to come, Dean," Sam tells him, glee coloring his voice.

Dean bites out, "Don't remind me," and snarls when the donkey finds a new topic.

.

Dean flirts with Fiona, the princess of Far Far Away. He also flirts with King Arthur, which doesn't shock Sam as much as he'd thought it would.

The king invites them—_them_, Dean and Sam Winchester—to spend the night in his palace. Sam doesn't let Dean out of his sight.

Sam finally drags Dean away in the morning, after King Arthur blatantly makes eyes at his brother. Dean preens beneath the attention, like a giant cat.

Puss walks with them back to the portal, talking to Sam. Dean takes in the sights, making random comments the whole way.

At the Gate, Puss removes his hat and bows. "It was an honor to meet you, Sam Winchester," he says.

Sam nods his head. "You, too."

Puss turns to Dean. "You are a strong warrior," he states. "I wish you luck with all your battles." He bows again.

Dean stares then, to Sam's shock, bows back.

Puss walks away and Dean turns to Sam. "Let's go home, Sammy," he says.

Sam doesn't even correct him on the nickname, just nods.


	2. Greek mythology

**Title**: Pandora's Gift  
**Fandom**: "Supernatural"/Greek mythology crossover  
**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun.  
**Warnings**: spoilers for everything  
**Pairings**: John/Mary  
**Rating**: PG  
**Wordcount**: 590  
**Point** **of** **view**: third  
**Notes**: While watching part two of the finale, I kept calling the hellgate "Pandora's Crypt." Hence this.

* * *

She once had an itty jar, a gift from her father the King. It was beautiful, pale marble, and stoppered with ivory. 

She, in her curiosity, opened the jar and cursed the world.

-

As a Daughter of the King, she is immortal. Her body dies on a pyre of power, like the Phoenix of old, but she awakens in a new one. She's worn every race and both genders, generation after generation, always remembering her first life on the thirtieth anniversary of her birth.

And then something goes wrong.

-

This life, her name is Mary. She wed a kind man called Winchester, bore him two beautiful sons. And the night her second is six months old, she rushes into his nursery and recognizes her brother, though she has not seen him in near-on six thousand years.

She is not yet thirty, this life, merely a month away, but it all comes back to her as he kills her, and parts of her soul stream from the confines of her flesh, seeking purchase.

And as she dies, bits of Pandora's spirit find sanctuary in the blood of her firstborn.

-

She has a new body, of course, but that form dies at age twenty-one and she recognizes her killer: again, her brother.

She does not know the design, why he wants her son. Nor does she care.

She sees her children at the house, saves them. Feels parts of her in Dean, a protection he sorely needs with War doggedly pursuing him.

She is spread far too thin—bits in Dean, bits at her house(until the boys arrive), and most of her named Rosie.

As Rosie, she is carried out of a fire by her firstborn, nearly killed by her brother for the third time.

Now, he's just pissing her off.

-

In that cabin, her brother's golden eyes stare at her soul and his malice seeps into her son's flesh.

_I see you, Sister_, he croons.

_Why?_ she asks, shielding Dean as best she can.

_You opened the door once, my dear_, he tells her, tearing into Dean. _I think the world's long overdue for it to open again._

-

She sleeps in her boy for a long time, worn out from keeping him alive.

When she wakes, Rosie is nearly two years old and John is dead. Dean is ripping himself apart with guilt and Sam doesn't know what to do.

John thought he knew something, but he got it completely wrong. Pandora's children and Pandora's bodies are always _more_.

-

When she was Samuel Colt, she sealed the door. She believed that she alone knew how to open it again.

But, apparently, her brother knew, too. And he's been biding his time.

-

In her first life, she unstoppered a jar and cursed the world.

In every life since, she's tried to make up for that.

-

Demons know. They're not quite sure what Dean is, but they sense he's more than human. Pandora has molded herself to his every fiber and won't be undone until he dies.

That crossroad's bitch will get them both when she comes for Dean's soul. And Pandora will erase her from existence.

-

Dean holds the Colt on War and pulls the trigger.

Pandora keeps her brother from moving as the bullet speeds for him.

Samuel Colt knew what he was doing.

-

Later, as Sam sleeps, Dean sits awake, watching. He counts Sam's breaths.

Pandora wonders at her sons' strength.

He traces the contours of Colt's demon-killer and calls the hellgate _Pandora's Crypt. _

In the inner reaches of his soul, Pandora laughs.


	3. Taken

**Title**: up before the dawn

**Fandom**: "Taken"/"Supernatural" crossover

**Disclaimer**: not my characters. just for fun. Title from " Amarillo Sky" by Jason Aldean.

**Warnings**: spoilers for entirety of "Taken" and "Supernatural" pilot; unapologetic run-on sentences; rampant misuse of _and_

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 1320

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Notes**: thanks be to **_smilla02_** for my Eric Close addiction.

**More** **notes**: The timelines may not actually mesh, so just don't look too closely.

* * *

A few weeks after Sam left, Dean found himself in Seattle with no memory of how he got there. He was in his car, parked in front of a McDonald's, and the last thing he remembered was driving behind Dad on their way to Tallahassee. And it had been night. 

But the sun was high in the sky and his watch said it was just after noon, and the Needle in the distance said he was now in Seattle, Washington—even though the last thing he remembered was driving east, crossing the Florida state line.

So he got out of the car and entered the McDonald's, checked the date: seven days gone from his memory. An entire week blank.

He sat at a table and searched through his pockets—he had everything. His wallet, his jackknife, that scrap of paper with Maggie the Friendly Waitress's number. All his credit cards were there, all his cash, his most recent fake ID.

So how the hell did he go from Florida to Washington and lose seven fucking days?

-

After eating a Big Mac he didn't really taste, Dean went back to his car, searched her top to bottom, looking for any shred of evidence, any clue. But there was nothing. He found his cellphone in the trunk, completely dead. Of course. Dean just stared into his trunk for a moment, dumbfounded beyond belief, and then he saw a pay phone. He called Dad but Dad didn't answer and that worried him, so then he tried Pastor Jim but instead Callie's Dog Grooming answered, and that totally weirded him out. So he dialed every single number he knew and no one picked up. Some had new names and some didn't exist, and Dean was quickly approaching fucking terrified.

Finally he dialed Sam with shaky fingers. And he got a voicemail telling him to leave David Barnett a message and Dean gently placed the phone back on the cradle and walked to his Impala and sank into the driver's seat. He sat there staring at nothing, lost and alone, and he'd never been so scared in his life, not even when that fucking striga tried to suck the life out of Sammy, or when Dad came home three days late with no word, or when that fucking psycho in Wyoming had him cornered and Dad was knocked out and Dean's arm was broken and Dean knew that look in the bastard's eye didn't bode well.

Dean had no idea what to do or where to go or how to possibly start looking for a way home. Some things were the same—like McDonald's and the Needle—and reading over the paper, he'd seen that it was the same news, mostly. So how everyone he knew didn't exist was really freaking him the fuck out.

Without knowing why, he raised his head and saw a little girl with blond hair run by, with a posse of adults on her tail. The brief glance showed her frightened face, and Dean'd always hated it when kids were in danger. So he started his car and he followed them, and luckily he'd lived in Seattle for a few months and he still had a mental map of the place. Unless, of course, the layout of the city had changed from his world to this one.

But on the off-chance it hadn't, Dean quickly figured out where Blondie would appear and he went there, waited. She rushed out of the bushes and ran to the back door, opened it, leapt in.

"Stay on the floor," he commanded and pulled away, rejoined traffic.

"Thank you," she said softly.

He looked in the rearview, not even knowing what he should be searching for. "Did they hurt you?" he asked.

"Not yet," she replied. "But my mom is in danger." Her voice was still soft and it tugged at every protective instinct he had.

"Where is she?" Dean turned off the main highway, heading for where Dad had a bolt-hole.

"You shouldn't be here," Blondie said and Dean glanced over his shoulder, met her large blue eyes. "This isn't your world."

"Tell me about it," Dean muttered and stopped in front of a—hunting store. Dad's bolt-hole was a _hunting store_ in this fucked-up world? Dean couldn't hold in the laughter and he sank down in his seat, covering his face with his hands.

"It'll be alright," Blondie told him, crawling over the seat and sitting shotgun. She touched his shoulder and continued, "You'll get home. Sam's safe; I know it."

He raised his head and looked at her. "Who are you?" he asked gently, sure beyond doubt she was _more_.

"Allison Clarke," she answered. "But I go by Allie."

He held out a hand and said, "Dean Winchester. I go by Dean."

"What are you seeing?" He studied her face. "When you look at me, Allie, what do you see?"

She reached out to touch his cheek, traced her finger along his jaw. "You," she responded. "I see you."

Allie pulled back and sank into the seat. He nodded, watched her for a moment. "Where do you need to go?"

She smiled again and told him, "I had a good feeling about you."

-

Dean followed her directions and pulled into a parking lot down the street. "You sure I shouldn't go with you?"

She nodded. "Everything will work out, Dean," she assured him, sounding far older than she looked. "Don't worry about me. You'll go home soon."

He got out the car and walked around the front, opened the door for her. As she got out, she said, "You'll save them both, when the time comes. Don't give up, Dean." He leaned down and gently wrapped his arms around her. She kissed his cheek and repeated, "Don't give up."

When he straightened, she gave him one last brilliant smile and hurried off; he watched her go, knowing _something_ was changed. If it was in her world or his, though, he couldn't be sure.

As he turned to get back in the Impala, he felt eyes on him, so he spun around, pulling out his gun. A man stood a few feet away, hands held in front of him, placatingly.

"I am no threat," he said calmly, gaze blue and sincere. "I only want to thank you for helping Allie."

Dean noticed his eyes were identical to the little girl's. "What are you to her?" he asked.

The man smiled. "I am her great-grandfather."

Dean raised an eyebrow, disbelieving, but kept his thoughts to himself. This guy didn't feel dangerous and Dean didn't feel like shooting, so he tucked his gun away.

The guy stepped forward and said again, "Thank you for helping Allie. I knew you were the one."

And just like that, all of Dean's instincts shrieked and he went for his gun and then white light blinded him—

-

—and he shot into consciousness with a choked-off yelp.

"Dean?" Dad called from the bathroom. "Everythin' alright in there?"

Taking a moment to inspect himself, Dean answered, "Yeah. Weird dream, 's'all."

"Okay. Get your ass in gear ,then. I want to get to Atlanta soon as possible." Dad's voice was gruff, but Dean heard the concern in the words.

Damn Sam and his abandonment. If he had any idea what he'd done to Dad… but all anger and hurt paled beneath Dean's pride. _His_ baby brother got a full ride to _Stanford_.

Dean forced himself out of the bed and got ready for the day. For some reason, he felt the pressing need to call Sam. With a swift glance at the closed bathroom door, he pulled out his cell and hit Sam's speed dial, waited through the five rings to Sam's voice mail, and relaxed when Sam said, "Leave a message. I'll get back to you."

Dean didn't say anything, just closed his phone and finished dressing.


	4. Devour

**Title**: Ares

**Fandom**: "Supernatural"/_Devour_ crossover

**Disclaimer**: Not my characters. Just for fun.

**Warnings**: AU for "Supernatural"; spoilers for _Devour_

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG13

**Wordcount**: 1195

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

Sam can't explain and it hurts his head to even try. But there's Dean and there's Jake and somehow they both exist, identical except Dean's twenty-eight and Jake's twenty-two. 

It doesn't make sense.

Jake's tightlipped and Dean's wary. Dean refuses to leave Sam alone with Jake and Jake refuses to be alone with Dean. Sam's running low on patience and sleep, and Dean keeps all the weapons away from Jake.

Jake doesn't say a thing about where he's from or what happened in his past, but one time he mentions something in passing to Sam and then it happens. So, with Dean hovering in the background, half mother hen and half guard dog, Sam starts talking about his nightmares that come true. And sometimes happen while he's awake.

Jake's eyes go to Dean and Sam practically begs Dean to leave. It takes pleading, assurance, and puppy eyes, but finally Dean says he'll be gone for five minutes tops.

And Jake spills all. He tells Sam about his waking nightmares and his family dying and his friends dying and his mother who called herself the devil. He tells Sam about the arrest and then release because of lack of evidence.

Sam listens, silent and non-judgmental.

By the time Dean comes back, Jake is quiet again. But his eyes—the same as Dean's when Sam left for Stanford—linger on Sam's face.

He didn't ask Sam to keep it from Dean.

-

When he sleeps, Sam dreams of a life that's not his. A warm mother who's paralyzed from the neck down, a stern father who sometimes drinks too much, a best friend who's abused, a fuck-buddy whose father rapes her—and waking nightmares that always eventually come true.

It isn't a good life he dreams of. And everyone calls him _Jake_.

-

Sam tells Dean about Jake while Jake takes a shower.

Dean raises an eyebrow and drawls, "Right."

But Sam says, "Dean, I believe him," and Dean looks away, at the bathroom door. He's quiet for a minute, the kind of quiet Sam associates with death and danger. Still in a way only the greatest of predators can be.

"I won't let you kill him," Sam murmurs and Dean meets his eyes, smirks.

"Wasn't plannin' to, Sammy," he answers and Sam knows it's the truth.

-

He still doesn't know how it happened. But the vision woke him up screaming and he told Dean they had to go _now_. Driving down the highway in the middle of Montana, they found Jake, bloodied and bruised and broken in a way neither of them ever had been.

Jake who looked like Dean did years ago. Exactly the same.

Dean wasn't sure what to do, but Sam said they had to pick him up.

And it didn't take much convincing; Jake was so worn-out, so run-down, so weary—he just wanted to rest. He fell asleep in the back seat, even with Dean's music shrieking, and slept for over twenty-four hours.

When he woke up, he was a part of them. Dean wouldn't turn his back, convinced for a while it was a trick, and then not turning his back was habit. Sometimes, Sam dreamed and knew it was actually Jake, but he didn't know how to start the conversation. He thought it was him, not Jake, and then Jake's waking nightmares…

He watches Jake and Dean, noting the similarities and differences. Jake isn't as hard as Dean, but seems just as weary. He has less scars, that's for sure, but not by much. Dean's sense of humor is darker; Jake's temper doesn't fray as swiftly. They both like him and they don't like each other.

But they do like the same kinds of movies, the same food, the same music. They both rag on him, though Jake is hesitant at first. Sam takes it all gracefully, hoping they'll click.

And then one day he wakes up and they do.

-

It's almost like Sam has two brothers, one older and one younger. And he finally understands how Dean must have felt all those years playing mediator.

It's damn tiring.

But this new thing, three again instead of two—it fits. Jake blends in. They teach him to fight and he gives them a taste of normality, because until his real mom showed up, that's mostly what he was.

When he wakes up from memory-dreams, Sam isn't always the one to comfort him. Listening to Dean quietly assure Jake that it's over, that nothing can hurt him anymore, Sam feels at a loss. It's what Dean does for him, he knows, but he's never heard it from this side before.

-

People have always looked at them, Sam and Dean. But now they get double takes.

The waitresses, and some waiters, don't know which to hit on, Dean or Jake, and Sam just laughs.

Dean's always used his looks, his natural charm, and his acting ability, but Jake hadn't. Under Dean's tutelage, Jake learns swiftly.

With them working together, Sam knows, the world doesn't have a chance.

-

Jake's first hunt is sixth months after he joins them on the road.

It's a routine haunting, a malicious poltergeist, but they'd missed part of the story when they'd researched the history of the house and Dean ends up flying out the second story window.

It's Jake who reacts instead of Sam, Jake's hand that reaches out and keeps Dean from hitting the ground, Jake whose anger snaps like a whip and sends the poltergeist to hell like it always should have been.

Dean doesn't remember his near swan-dive and Sam doesn't feel like telling him. Jake doesn't mention his sudden telekinesis and neither does Sam.

-

After, Sam wonders how he didn't see it coming, why the dreams didn't warn him, why Jake didn't.

After, Sam doesn't know who he hates more, himself, Dean, or Jake.

After, Sam has no clue what to do, where to go.

After, Sam just sits in the middle of the room his brother died in and weeps.

-

Jake, of course, survived. Sam wonders if he can die.

Sam survived, too. He knows he hates himself for that.

-

Dean never was normal, but he was more normal than Sam. After all, he didn't have 'abilities.' No telekinesis, no telepathy, no premonitions—nothing but a hunter's intuition and a brother's instinct.

Jake apologizes every day and Sam can't look at him.

Not with Jake having Dean's eyes and Dean's hair and Dean's voice.

Marisol pokes her head in sometimes, and Sam can barely restrain himself from attacking her, from trying to kill her.

Jake watches him uncertainly and Sam wonders if Jake will warn Marisol when he finally does choose it's time.

Remembering Jake's memories of Connie, Sam doubts it.

-

Three years after Dean dies, killed by Marisol and her plans for world domination, killed by Mom's killer and lies, killed by his own bull-headed overprotectiveness, Sam gets his vengeance.

Jake smirks Dean's smirk and watches his mother die. Then he and Sam leave together, get in Dean's car and drive away.

Dean's music plays and they don't know where they're going.


	5. Greek mythology 2

**Title**: All That Is Eternal

**Fandom**: "Supernatural"/Greek mythology crossover

**Disclaimer**: dinna think 'em up, duno own 'em

**Warnings**: spoilers for everything up to "Tall Tales"

**Pairings**: implied Dean/Sam, mentions of ancient het and slash

**Rating**: PG13ish

**Wordcount**: 1044

**Notes**: This may only make sense in my head.

* * *

My sisters are the famous ones—the Weaver and the One Who Shears. I oft go unmentioned, neither beloved nor feared.

Of all the Ancients, we three alone remain. The King has long since faded, with his sister-bride, his siblings, and all his spawn. The mists of Time do not tremble before anyone, least of all an immature god.

Do I sound coarse if I say I miss of none of them? They were reckless, all of the Olympians, all of their court. They were reckless, children playacting with power, and after a handful of millennia, they burned out.

But we three remain, the true Immortals, the true gods.

We watch the animals, from insects to men to whales and eagles, and everything in between. We weave, we measure, we cut.

Clotho, the youngest, the Maiden—she is adored, when remembered. She weaves the Thread of Life for every thing that breathes.

Atropos, the eldest, the Crone—she is feared and hated, when thought is given to her. She wields the Shears, she cuts the Thread of Life.

And I? Oh, so few remember my name. I am not important, Lachesis, the Matron. I do not weave and I do not cut—all I do is measure.

All. But I am, in fact, the strongest—after all, if I do not decide it is time to weave or time to cut—what point is there?

But, it is time to leave behind the past. I am sure you—as all young things—are impatient to discover why I have pulled you aside and begun talking.

It is the name on all lips, young trickster. You yourself have spoken it, stood in his presence. Anansi has told me of you, the potential you have; the Spider, in his own way, is Immortal. Not from the Mountain, like my sisters and I, but old enough to matter. And he thinks you could one day be his equal.

Clotho and Atropos have delegated telling you, one who could possibly become like us, the story. The tale that all Immortals should know before their thousandth year. Those who have not learned… oh, they do not last long, after.

Do not roll your eyes at me, child. You already forget what I have told you—I commanded Clotho to weave your thread… and I can command Atropos to cut it.

_That_ is my power, Trickster. That is my gift. That is why I am the one true Immortal in all the realms—as are my sisters.

However, as I was saying—there have always been hunters. From the beginning, when Chaos spit out the worlds, there has been Darkness and Light, ever embroiled in battle.

In his first life, that mortal you were so called to—he sold the world for a song. He went by Orpheus in those days, hundreds of centuries ago. His great loves were music—and a woman named Eurydice. Dark hair, green eyes, bronzed skin, tall for those times… sound familiar? It should.

He died after he failed to take Eurydice from Hades, of a broken heart. That boy was never meant to be alone, away from his soul—and his soul has always walked the world in a body different from his own.

He's worn many shapes over the decades, not all human. He's been all the great predators, all the graceful prey. He raced the wind as a wild stallion, soared the sky as a falcon, swam the deep waters as whale and dolphin and shark, paced the African continent as the king of wild beasts—you get the idea, I'm sure.

His next famous life, one I know you've heard of—Alexander the Great, who ruled the world. And Sam? He went by Hephaestion. They are entangled, those two. Never to be undone. You can try to come between them all you like—and nothing will be the result.

From the beginning, as I have said, there was Light. And there was Dark. Chaos created both and tossed them into the endless void of space, gave them form and fate. Many, countless numbers, have tried over the millennia to come between them, to separate them, to claim one.

Do not look at me with such shocked eyes, Trickster. You felt the power when you stood in their presence. You felt the threads binding them; you tested the threads with your paltry tricks.

All seek to possess the Light; none can help it. Light whispers of hope eternal, of no pain at all. Light is—well, every good thing you can imagine multiplied by forever. Then add in cheesecake.

However, young Trickster, this is what you must understand. This is the thing many have failed to comprehend and so frolicked gaily to their doom.

Light belongs only to Dark. And the reverse is even more true.

Eons come and eons go—we three weave, measure, and cut. A few besides us stay around, but one day their threads will end and my sister will sever them.

This is the way of the world. Light and Dark, and us—we alone will never die.

No, no, don't even think it. Contemplating _that_ will lead you straight to Atropos' shears. What it is about those two souls, I do not know. But I have measured their lives an infinite amount of times—and always they are rewoven. Light and Dark—two halves eternal.

So, boy—can you begin to understand? The power between them is unbeatable, as that foolish firechild will soon learn. He seeks to claim that which is not his. And Light will burn him to ash for that.

Do not believe Light is always kind. Light is possessive, protective—and vindictive, when angered or hurt. The firechild chases after Dark, wishing to own that unbreakable spirit. And Light will not relinquish what has been his since the dawn of creation.

This is but one facet of the eternal war, dear Trickster. And do not seek to subvert their attention. The war has never been between Light and Dark—but rather, between them and everything else.

We three are the Immortals who have witnessed every battle, who have woven and who have measured and who have cut. And we shall do so forever.


	6. The Black Jewels Trilogy

**Title**: Broken Chalice

**Fandom**: "Supernatural"/_The Black Jewels Trilogy_ crossover

**Disclaimer**: Not my characters. Just for fun.

**Warnings**: spoilers for _The Black Jewels Trilogy_

**Pairings**: mostly gen

**Rating**: PG13

**Wordcount**: 1820

**Point of view**: third

* * *

Once, his eyes were a bright green and his joyful grin shone light onto the world. Once he greeted each dawn with a smile. Once he stood tall, proud, full of life and love. 

Once, he was not broken. Only barely can he remember those days.

He has no memory of how he came to be in this place. Sometimes, he sees glimpses of somewhere else, somewhere he was loved and cherished and protected.

But always, he is recalled to the present, to the torturous existence he sees no way out of.

Dorothea commands instant obedience. She does not accept failure or a wait. Only one person has ever openly defied her, to his knowledge, and that man wears the Black, something he cannot claim.

He is not even lucky enough to wear a Jewel at all, but no one has been able to remove the golden charm from his neck—not with Craft or the more base means of a knife.

A few speculate, where he cannot hear, what it means, that necklace, and the scars he arrived with. They have companions, now, those remnants of another life, many companions. No one is fast enough for Dorothea. Or subservient enough, and for some reason, groveling tastes bitter on his tongue.

He does not count the days, has not for a long time. Others come and go, most notably the wearer of the Black, Daemon Sadi, a dangerous man. Sadi's voice was silken when he spoke to him, his fingers soft upon his face.

The Sadist, many call him. One who offers exquisite pleasure laced with pain.

"Who are you?" Sadi crooned, gently tracing his jaw.

"Samuel," he answered, closing his eyes as the Sadist's fingertip touched his lips.

"You are different, Samuel," Sadi whispered. "I have not met your kind before."

Dorothea called for Sadi then and the two did not speak again. Later, much later, he learned that Sadi escaped, vanished, and was rumored to have destroyed a court—and a child.

And even later, he learned that the Sadist fell into the Twisted Kingdom.

-

Once, he knows, he was happy. Now, though, he can hardly recall the definition of the word.

In this court, he is the lowest of the low, a slave of slaves. He has no rank, no prospect, no hope. He is a toy of all who wish to play with him, male and female alike.

Sometimes, he can remember being cherished. It is a distant feeling, always fleeting, and it leaves him aching deep inside.

He does not know how he can remember his name but not his family; how he can remember he was happy but not his past.

He does not know why the Sadist's presence calmed him so, since Sadi is the most dangerous person in the realm.

But something in the man's bearing, his touch—it stoked a fire inside him, struck a chord, and the echo reverberates in his dreams.

Except, Sadi's golden eyes turn to hazel, if he thinks long enough, and his black hair lightens to dark blond.

-

He learned he was an anomaly early on. He did not look like any of the long-lived races, but he never aged. They studied him before casting him in the role of slave. They sent tendrils of power into his mind, his soul, his body—they raped him over and over, and he had no means of fighting back. He merely endured. He could not rise above the pain or sink into himself; he could only suffer in silence and heal when at last given the chance.

He clung to the few half-remembered glimpses of another life in those days. Even then, he thought them only fever dreams, concocted by a desperate man who needed something to clutch close for self-preservation.

They demanded his name, his past, and all he had to offer was, "Samuel." They could not explain his green eyes or dark brown hair, and the fact that he did not age or wear a Jewel. They could not explain, but they could enslave.

And they did. An unknown, he was watched closely for a time he did not bother measuring. When he showed no sign of power or defiance, he was forgotten. Cast aside, ignored, beaten, branded a failure… branded useless, clearly just a mistake that should never have been born, never fallen from wherever he fell from…

Only noticed when someone wanted something. Only noticed for sex. His green eyes darkened and his scarred body hardened and he could feel himself fading, but no one noticed, no one cared—

-

And Dorothea died.

He felt the rush of power before anyone else, heard the voice calling on the air, sensed it all before it happened.

And he remembered. He remembered it all.

-

_Falling… careening into the abyss… screaming… blood and death and fire—**tell me this doesn't freak you out**—and a gentle touch to keep madness at bay. _

_—**long as I'm around—where are you**?—**Sammy**!— _

_Falling… rushing into the depths, lost and forgotten, and no matter how hard he searches… no matter where he looks, or how long… _

_—**Dean**— _

_Falling… into another world… _

-

He had no explanation, no understanding. All he had was centuries of pain and loss, and the sure knowledge that Dean was long dead.

He had no way home, no one in this world who cared. All he had was a golden charm and no reason of how it got there, and why it wouldn't come off.

Waiting for Witch's forces to find the survivors, Samuel held the charm in his fist.

Surely, the Sadist would help him.

-

The closer he moved to Witch's keep, the more the power filled him.

He still wore no Jewel but a golden necklace from a different life, but he started to believe it didn't matter.

That rush of dark intent, coupled with love for all—like Sadi, it reminded him of Dean. In his mind's eye, he could see his brother, smirking and grinning and laughing and yelling at him for being stupid enough to fall into a portal.

His eyes misted and the carriage stopped before the imposing building. As he passed through the doors, he could sense the grief that permeated the place—these people, for all their strength, could not help him. They were as lost as he was, perhaps moreso.

He glanced once more around him and closed his eyes, Dean appearing in front of him. Dean, in all his living glory, bathed in sunlight, a beacon of hope—

**Who are you?** a deep, dark, kind voice asked and he raised his head.

No one stood in sight. "Samuel," he answered.

**This is not your world, Samuel,**the voice continued. **This is not your place.**

_"_No sir," he replied respectfully, still searching.

**We cannot help you, child. Not now. Perhaps, if you had come sooner… **the voice trailed off, but regret tinted his tone.

Samuel quickly assured him, "It's not your fault, sir. I doubt anyone could help me now, or then." He sighed and added, "Have a good day, sir."

He turned and exited through the doors, the carriage long gone, but he just walked. He passed what seemed like a zoo, but they all paused to look at him, the Kindred they were called. Animals that wore a Jewel and spoke.

**Have hope, **the voice called as he left. **Have hope in twilight.**

Samuel did not know what that meant, but he touched his brother's charm and knew he would.

-

Seasons passed, seasons beyond counting. He ate when hungry, sipped water when parched, slept when he wearied, and walked. He felt the return of the Queen, of the one once called Witch, and learned that the dark, kind voice had been Lorn, a dragon older than the world, nearly.

Witch had cleansed the realms and now Jaenelle, as Queen, ruled them.

None of which helped him. Witch alone had the power to send him home, but Witch no longer existed.

He returned to the place he'd entered Hayll, searching for any clue, for the door that had opened and let him fall through, but there was nothing.

Even if he got home… Dean was long dead.

-

The few hours he slept, he dreamed of his childhood. As he walked, he sought out dark blond hair and a leather jacket. When he ate, he imagined it was in a diner somewhere in America, with his brother across the table. In the wind, he sometimes heard Dean's laugh.

His eyes slowly brightened when his slavery ended. His body stayed just as hard, just as scarred, but his soul lightened.

Lorn had told him to have hope. Surely—the father of the Blood would not lie, or offer a false promise.

_- _

He opens his eyes and sees a gray ceiling. Beneath him, he feels a mattress. Spread out over him is a faded blanket.

He reaches for the charm, but it's gone.

Samuel lunges up and out of the bed, searching—a toilet flushes and he **knows**

The bathroom door opens and his brother walks out. The charm rests by his heart. "Dean," Samuel whispers.

Dean looks up and meets his eyes. "What's wrong?" he asks, stretching. "Nightmare?"

Samuel nods jerkily, not ready to except it's all over, just an endless nightmare. He can feel the cracks in his psyche, in his soul—he was broken.

Dean walks over and looks up into Samuel's eyes. "You're awake now, little brother," he says. "Now, go take a shower. We've gotta hit the road."

Samuel nods and steps around him, hesitating in the doorway. He glances over his shoulder and asks, "If I fell through a portal and you couldn't find a way in, what would you do?"

Dean straightens from packing and meets his gaze. "I'd find a way."

_- _

_Falling… careening into the abyss… screaming… blood and death and fire—**tell me this doesn't freak you out**—and a gentle touch to keep madness at bay. _

_—**long as I'm around—where are you**?—**Sammy**!— _

_Falling… rushing into the depths, lost and forgotten, and no matter how hard he searches… no matter where he looks, or how long… _

_—**Dean**— _

_Falling… into another world… _

_- _

"Sam!"

His eyes open. The sun is bright above him, the ground hard beneath him, and his body aches. "Dean?" he whispers but there is no answer. "Dean!" The scream is primal, terrified, and when Dean calls, "Sammy!" he knows, at last, he's safe.

He doesn't move when Dean nearly trips over him; it hurts too much. He doesn't cry when Dean lifts him, barely able to support them both. He doesn't say anything when Dean gently puts him in the Impala and breaks every traffic law getting to the hospital.

He cries when he wakes the next morning because Dean is asleep in the chair next to the hospital bed and he finally realizes he's fallen back home.


	7. Harry Potter

**Title**: to see a world in a grain of sand

**Fandom**: _Harry Potter_/"Supernatural" crossover

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. Title from William Blake.

**Warnings**: none for SN; I haven't read HBP

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 500

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

After the war, when he was truly the only Marauder left, Remus wandered the world for a bit. He sent Luna a postcard, now and again, using Muggle mail, mostly. He was done with magic. 

He left Britain and headed towards the sun, crisscrossing Europe and the Middle East, ending up in Asia. He then moved southwest, across China and India, down into Africa. He traveled south, along the coast, then curved with the tip and went north, smelling the Atlantic the entire way.

He still missed James, and even Peter, but Sirius was an ache that just wouldn't fade. He had failed them all, failed spectacularly, when he let Harry fall.

-

Remus rode on a ship across the ocean. He rarely went inside, always staring at the sky or out over the water. He replayed Harry's final moments over and over, torturing himself, trying to figure out what he should have done differently. He heard Hermione's scream, Ron's groan, Ginny's gasp. In his memory, the ocean breeze swirling around him, he watched as they died, struck down by Death Eaters, mere seconds after Harry and Voldemort both died.

He just couldn't stay in Britain after that. Couldn't stand being near so many reminders of his failures—Sirius, James, Harry, everyone… so he fled. Fled the country, the continent, traveled the world, trying to escape his guilt, even though he knew just how futile that was. He'd never outrun it.

And here he was, crossing an ocean.

-

He wandered America, starting at Florida and moving diagonally for Washington. He went south along California's coast, then headed for Maine. He had no destination, no plan, just the incessant need to move. He spoke rarely, never met anyone's eyes if he could help it, and avoided newspapers at all cost.

Remus had never had problems losing himself in humanity's shuffle, not like James or Sirius. He could blend anywhere, just step back and be gone. So he did.

-

It was over a year since he set foot on American soil, nearly three since the war ended. Remus hadn't heard a thing from Britain, from the magical world. He didn't miss it nearly as much as he'd thought he would. He'd stopped sending Luna postcards about ten countries back.

It was in Ohio, when he met the brothers. The taller one, Sam, had looked at him with sympathetic eyes, told him it was time to rest. The other held a gun on him, keeping himself slightly in front of his brother.

Remus looked from one to the other, and said, "I'm not tired."

"Trust me," Sam said, his green eyes earnest. "They're waiting for you, everyone you've been looking for."

Remus studied him for a long moment. "Are you sure?" he asked.

Sam smiled sadly. "Yes. Sirius misses you, and James. They want you to come home."

Dean lowered the gun when Remus closed his eyes. "I miss them, too," Remus murmured.

"Just let go," Sam told him softly.

So, easily, Remus did.


	8. The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen

**Title**: The Favored Son

**Fandom**: "Supernatural"/_The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen_ crossover

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun.

**Warnings**: spoilers for movie

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 740

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Notes**: _fairiekween13_ read this and told me I've sunk to new depths. -shrugs- Make of that what you will.

* * *

Africa will not let him die. He is her son, her flesh and her blood, her child born of other earth. She feels his body weaken, though he is across the world; storms roll across her land as she screams. 

He is not on her land, so she can do nothing.

-

Storms roam Africa until he is brought home. He is laid in her earth, next to his bloodkin; she sings, joyful to have him back on her land where she rules unopposed.

His companions say their goodbyes and she waits. Her son, the StormSinger, summons the power needed.

Africa swore that her flesh, her blood, her boy, would never die. And Africa keeps her oaths.

The StormSinger screams and Africa's power rolls through him. Lightning strikes the weapon spread out over her son's grave; the power surges through his body.

His spirit speaks, whispers to her. She listens.

He is weary. Misses his bloodkin. He asks if she will let him go, for a time. Africa loves him enough to let him go, so the StormSinger halts.

-

Africa waits. Generations of humanity are born and die, and still she waits. The StormSinger rests, always listening for Africa's command.

She swore to never let him die, her favorite son, the child born of another land's earth. She hears whispers in the air, blowing through her trees and bushes, murmuring to the creatures walking her dirt. The water that laps against her speaks of others coming, children of power—children like her boy.

And his soul calls to her, from his resting place. She has waited for dozens of human years and finally he is ready to come home.

-

The StormSinger calls up lightning, sings to Africa; the bolt flashes across the water, strikes almost exactly in the center of Africa's young sister, America.

America is not alive like Africa—none of her brothers or sisters are. That is why she cherishes her children so much; they can sing to her soul in a way nothing else ever has.

The StormSinger sighs; finally, he can rest. She feels him let go and cradles his body close, murmuring to him. She is proud of him, her son—not her favorite, but so close.

America will not treasure Africa's son as she should—she has no life, cannot know. The only thing for Africa to do, to protect her treasured boy in this new life she has given him, is to be there with him.

But her roots go deep into the planet. She cannot remove herself, cannot cross the ocean and take America's place. But what is there to do? She can hear him crying, a helpless newborn—it's been so long since he was so young, and he cannot remember the life before…

And the StormSinger speaks from his rest, barely a whisper across her savannah. Africa consents.

-

It will take power, such power as has not been seen in millennia, the StormSinger tells her. And there will be a price.

Africa pays it gladly.

Never again will she be so large, so strong, able to weather storms and birth mountains. Never again will she be able to protect all of her children.

She will become human, helpless and fragile, killable. Africa has never feared death, never had to—as the continent, she is beyond pain.

But her son cries out, and Africa tells the StormSinger she is ready.

-

Africa awakens, breathes, cries. She remembers for only a single of her newborn human heartbeats, and then her consciousness sinks down, into her newfound flesh.

She is held tight in human arms; a voice speaks to her, but she knows not the words—and she is Africa no more.

-

_The StormSinger waits, as he always has. One day, Africa will have need of him—even if she is Africa no more, and now a human, with all the frailties. Even if she is no longer his mother, and instead a mere human boy._

_Africa—Samuel—will call for him, and the StormSinger will fly across the water, will answer with joy. _

_Some of Africa still resides in Samuel's weak flesh. Entities will sense that power, will attempt to wrest control… and the StormSinger cannot stop it until Samuel calls for him. _

_The StormSinger hopes Africa's favorite son, now Samuel's brother, will do what he must. Africa sacrificed herself to save him—the StormSinger can only pray Allan—Dean—will do the same. _


	9. The Forsaken

**Title**: Spilled Before The Moon

**Fandom**: "Supernatural"/_The Forsaken_ crossover

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun.

**Warnings**: spoilers for movie; slight AU for "Supernatural"

**Pairings**: Dean/Nick

**Rating**: PG13

**Wordcount**: 740

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

There are a lot of things Dean's never told Sam. He should feel guilt for them, for the lying and the deceit, but he can't. There are just some things Sam doesn't need to know.

"You ever gonna tell 'im?" Nick asks and flicks the cigarette butt to the ground.

"Probably," Dean answers with a shrug. "But not tonight."

Nick smirks and shifts closer, stepping out of the moonlight. "Scared of what lil'bro'll do, Deanio?"

Dean grins and turns slightly, angling himself to lean on the Impala's hood. "Bit frightened of what _you_ might do to him, yeah. And what _he_ might let you do."

"Take after you, does he?" Nick grins, resting one hand on either side of Dean.

"A bit, yeah," he chuckles, titling his head to the side, smirking at Nick from beneath his lashes.

Nick leans in and lightly grazes Dean's neck with his teeth, trailing up to behind his right ear. Dean sighs and reaches out, gently pushes on Nick's chest.

"You really want me to stop now?" Nick whispers, cradling the back of Dean's head with his left hand and trailing the right along the edge of Dean's face.

"Gotta get back to Sammy 'fore dawn, Nick. Can't leave him on his own too much, not yet."

"I heard…" Nick starts, licking his lips, "through the grapevine, about his girlfriend…"

Dean looks down, picks at the hem of his shirt. "It was bad, Nick. Real bad. I barely got there in time to drag him out." He sighs again and rests more of his weight on the Impala. "It's killing him."

"You'll save him," Nick says, without a trace of doubt. Dean looks up, can barely make out his eyes in the moonlight. "You will. You can't do anything else." The corners of his lips turn up in the barest hint of a smile. "It's what you were born for, Dean—to save your little brother."

Dean ducks his head and softly hits Nick's shoulder. "Thanks," he mutters, running a hand through his hair. Nick's smile is sincere and sad, and he leans forward to rest their foreheads together.

"How's your keeper?" Dean asks, reaching up to wrap his arms around Nick's neck.

Nick chuffs a laugh. "Good. Thinks I'm out on a date right now."

Dean smirks, eyes barely a finger's-breadth from Nick's. "Are you?" Nick just smiles and presses closer, touching Dean's lips with his own. "You should tell this Sean-guy how you feel, Nicky," Dean whispers. "'cause, you never know…"

"I know," Nick whispers back, resting his head on Dean's shoulder and letting Dean hold most of his weight.

They just _are_ for a moment, waiting beneath the moon for something neither could ever name.

"When you find that fang, Forsaken, what-the-fuck-ever, you'll let me know, right?" Dean finally asks softly. "You won't go up against that bastard with just Sean, right?"

"Yeah," Nick answers, nodding against Dean. "Promise."

"Good."

Nick steps back and Dean straightens, rolls his shoulders. "Be safe," he says, the tone a mixture of pleading and commanding. Nick nods and grips Dean's shoulder, then turns and walks away without glancing back.

Dean watches him go, waits till Nick's in his car and driving down the road, then slides into his Impala and points her to the motel where he's left Sam passed out. He doesn't turn on the radio, just drives in silence, listening to the Impala's roar and the wind rushing by. Remembering everything he knows, what he conned Dad into telling, and trying to think of a way to explain Nick to Sam that won't end up with Sam's soul bleeding more.

There's a lot Dean's never told Sam, and imagining the betrayal in Sam's eyes when the truth finally spills out(as it will, because there's no way it won't) hurts Dean more than he'd have believed possible.

_Okay, that's a lie_, Dean admits to himself, parking outside the room. He sits in the car for a minute, staring blindly at the window. "This is so fucked up," he says, slumping down and resting his forehead on the steering wheel. "So completely _beyond_ fucked up."

Finally he gets out of the car and lets himself in the room, throwing himself onto the bed without taking off his boots or jacket. Just listens to Sam breathe.

_So many things I haven't told you, Sammy, _he thinks, and stares at the ceiling until he falls asleep.


	10. Charmed

**Title**: Brotherhood

**Fandom**: "Charmed"/"Supernatural" crossover

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun.

**Warnings**: spoilers for season 6 of "Charmed" and pilot of "Supernatural"

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG13

**Wordcount**: 1065

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

"Brothers **_suck_**."

The drunken proclamation by the man slouching on the barstool next to him made a great deal of sense to Chris's addled mind. It had been a long time since he'd drunk alcohol; not since Wyatt introduced it to him on his fifteenth birthday to help ease the pain of knowing there was nothing to celebrate.

Chris raised his beer in a toast. "I'll drink to that."

"I mean, really," the man continued, "what right do they have to just abandon you for some dream?"

Chris turned and looked at the man. "What's your name?" he asked.

"Dean Win..." he laughed. "Win something." His eyes were bloodshot and he looked haggard; Chris's whitelighter instincts took over. He gently grabbed the beer from Dean's grasp. "C'mon, Dean," he said, "let's get you out of here before you hurt yourself even more." The muggy feeling of being drunk evaporated quickly as Chris attempted to help Dean.

Dean stiffened beneath Chris's touch; Chris looked into the other man's eyes. Dean wasn't much older than him, but his eyes looked ancient, like Chris knew his own did. This Dean was far more dangerous than he appeared, just like Chris. Dean regarded him for a moment before he relaxed. "Okay," he muttered and Chris breathed an internal sigh of relief. He helped Dean to his feet and they slowly walked to the door.

"Are you complaining about an older or younger brother?" Chris asked, steadying Dean as he stumbled.

"Younger. Ungrateful bitch." Dean waved an arm about, almost toppling them over. "I gave up my childhood to help raise him, and he just **_left_** me!"

Chris wondered for a moment if that was how Wyatt felt when he realized Chris was gone and wouldn't be coming back.

Finally they reached the door and Chris asked, "Did you drive here?"

Dean paused to think and then shook his head. "Knew I might get drunk. Couldn't hurt my baby."

"Alright, Dean, how drunk **_are_** you?" Chris couldn't risk exposure. If Dean wasn't drunk enough that he wouldn't remember this, Chris couldn't help him anymore than to call a cab.

Dean regarded Chris in what could be termed drunken wonder. "You don't ask someone who's drunk how drunk they are," he told Chris. "That's **_stupid_**."

"I'd give you a glare," Chris retorted, "but I don't think it'd have the right affect, since you're too drunk to notice." He considered his options. Maybe he could make up for his betrayal of Wyatt by helping someone else's older brother. "Dean," he said, "don't freak on me."

He orbed them to his room at P3.

-

Chris was shocked by Dean's non-reaction. He just looked around nonchalantly and then said, "Dude, I'm about to hurl." Chris quickly called a bucket to him and Dean grabbed it then threw up into it.

"So, am I sleeping?" Dean asked after he'd finished and rinsed out his mouth with water.

Chris smiled and shook his head. "No."

Dean nodded and said, "Can I?"

Chris nodded and gestured to the bed. "Take it."

Dean collapsed on it and fell asleep without bothering to remove his shoes. Chris orbed them off for him.

-

The next morning Dean opened his eyes and wondered where the hell he was. It wasn't his apartment or the hotel room he'd rented for his visit to San Francisco.

He sat up, head pounding, and looked around. A young man, about Sammy's age, stood in the doorway, holding a mug in his hand. "Coffee?" he asked, offering it to Dean.

Dean vaguely remembered having a conversation with this man, a friendly conversation, so he nodded and immediately regretted it. The man came closer and handed the mug to Dean, who gulped it. The heat didn't bother him; his tastebuds were dead anyway, after all the healing tonics he'd had to drink over the years. Not to mention he'd survived John Winchester's cooking.

"Who are you?" he asked, once he'd drained the mug.

"Chris. You were pretty wasted last night, and couldn't remember where your hotel was, so I brought you back here." Chris was a good liar, but then, so was Dean.

"The truth." It wasn't a demand. Dean knew they hadn't done anything, and he knew that some secrets need to be kept. If Chris was willing to help him when they weren't friends, or anything more than drunken acquaintances, he had to have a reason, but Dean wouldn't push for it.

"I thought maybe I could make up for my mistakes by helping you."

Dean nodded. "Thanks, Chris. Is there a bathroom nearby?"

Chris smiled and said, "Out the door, on the right." Dean swung his legs off the bed and stood, stumbling as the pain in his head strengthened from a dull ache to a screaming roar. He grimaced and put a hand to his head.

"You alright?" Chris asked and Dean snorted. "I'll be fine as soon as I take enough Advil to kill an elephant."

"Yeah," Chris laughed. "I know that feeling."

Dean hobbled past him to the bathroom.

"Are we in a club?" Dean asked, coming back into the room. Chris had been leaning against the wall and flipping through an old magazine, and he glanced up to nod.

"A friend of mine owns it. She lets me stay here." He straightened and said, "I can take you back to your hotel, if you want. We can stop for breakfast on the way."

Dean smiled, "You don't have to. I can find my way. Thanks for helping me last night. That's the drunkest I've been in awhile." He clapped his hand on Chris's shoulder and said, "I'm sure your brother'll forgive you for whatever it was you did."

Chris shook his head and ruefully said, "He won't. But thanks." He paused for a minute, then added, "Your brother will come back."

Dean laughed and kidded, "Little brother's are a pain in the ass."

Chris smirked. "Older brother's are even bigger pain's in the ass."

-

As Dean drove out of San Francisco, he reflected. Maybe longing for Sammy to come back wasn't a lost cause. The pain receded in his soul; he turned the music up loud and sang along.

-

Chris watched Piper play with Wyatt. He smiled, remembered the fun he had with his older brother, back before everything went to Hell. His resolve strengthened; he'd save Wyatt. He had to.


	11. Animorphs

**Title**: the prize we sought is won

**Fandom**: _Animorphs_/"Supernatural" crossover

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. Title from Whitman.

**Warnings**: AU for _Animorphs_—the final battle happened and Rachel died, but all the aliens remained hidden.

**Pairings**: Rachel/Tobias

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 985

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Notes**: -Dean Winchester- is morphspeak.

**Dedication**: claraine, who requested this crossover.

* * *

It was six years after Rachel's death when Tobias had the first dream. He was in a cave, half-human and half-hawk, and a shadow-man with yellow eyes manifested before him. 

"Welcome," the shadow said. "I've been waiting for you." It circled him; Tobias spun to keep it in sight. "You are my special one," it purred. "My favorite."

"Who are you?" Tobias demanded. "What do you want?"

It laughed. "Call me _Father_."

Tobias reared back and glared. "I have a father."

"No," it corrected. "You _had_ a father. He died, didn't he? Before you ever knew him."

"I knew him," Tobias insisted, forcibly lowering his wing-arms. "He was good."

"Yes," the shadow mused. "A warrior. The best his people have ever borne. But he still died, m'boy. He still left. You must be so angry at him for that."

Tobias threw himself back, away from those glowing yellow eyes and the understanding voice, and nearly fell out of his tree. He flared his wings, catching himself, and hurried toward dawn.

-

Three nights later, the shadow-man returned. It stood in the corner as Tobias watched Rachel fight again.

"Oh, poor boy," it said sadly. "Everyone always leaving. If only you knew your power, you could make them stay."

Rachel fell to the floor, bleeding and broken. Tears poured from Tobias' human eyes and Rachel died.

He woke leaping from his tree, morphing human. But even as he cried, huddled close to the dirt, he wanted to run, for the earth to pound beneath his hooves.

Tobias went from human to horse in less than a heartbeat and didn't stop to think about the ease or speed or impossibility of the change until dawn broke and he'd been a horse for half the night.

_No_, he moaned. _I'm **nothlit** again_.

He already mourned his wings, and as he thought of them he felt them sprouting to the sky and wondered, _What the fuck is going on?_

-

That night, it was the Ellimist in his old man guise that crashed Tobias' dream of hunting a polar bear.

"Hello, Tobias," he said. "The years have been kind to you."

-Why are you here?- Tobias demanded, dropping to the ground and morphing human. "What do you want?"

"Surely you've noticed some changes, Tobias. You no longer need to be in hawk form to morph—you can go from animal to animal with speed and beauty—you, dear boy, are something entirely new."

Tobias snorted. "Well, bully for me." He turned, leaping up and becoming a hawk, swiftly flying away.

The Ellimist kept pace with him. "You can become anything you want, Tobias. You can mix and match; if you but imagine it, it is yours."

Tobias flew faster and his eyes opened.

He swiftly morphed human and yelled into the night, "Just leave me the fuck alone!"

-

For almost a month he got his wish. But then he dreamed of the Ellimist fighting a yellow-eyed shadow, both screaming for his soul. Tobias watched, at a loss. He didn't know what to do or how to wake.

"He has been mine from the moment of his mother's birth!" the shadow howled.

"But his father wasn't one of yours," the Ellimist countered calmly. "The father was mine. I chose the boy first, demon. I have prior claim."

The shadow-man(demon?) jeered. "You think that matters to me? You are not of this world or this time."

"Tobias," the Ellimist pronounced, wings hovering at his back, "son of Loren and Elfangor is _mine_."

The shadow peered long at Tobias; it took great restraint to keep from shrinking back.

"For now, Elder," the shadow said softly. "But mine always prove themselves in the end." It chuckled. "Killers, all. Remorseless. You'll see."

Tobias woke, dread in his throat.

-

After that, he began practicing. The Ellimist was right: he envisioned the shape in his mind and he became it. Any shape, from any age—except alien, he found. He couldn't morph Andalite or Taxxon or Hork-Bajir. But he could become dinosaurs and saber-toothed cats and mammoths. He could even create mythological beasts, like sirens and centaurs. His morphs were always male, though.

The war was over, had been ended quietly with the Yeerks retreating. And now, when it was no use, he had such ability—Tobias cursed the shadow and Ellimist both.

-

A year to the night of his first dream, on the eve of his twenty-third birthday, the shadow came back. Tobias was awake this time.

It spoke to him through a young woman with long blonde hair and bright blue eyes. Tobias knew she wasn't Rachel, but the superficial similarities hurt him anyway.

"I can return her to you, m'boy," it said with the woman's stolen mouth. "The meddler is constrained by his rules, but my hands are unfettered."

Tobias morphed a viper of monstrous size and gave himself large bat wings. -And what would I have to do for you?- he asked.

"There is a war, Tobias, far greater than the alien war you've already fought. It's not about lives—it's about souls. I want you for my side."

Tobias took to the air. -You'll give me back Rachel? Like she was?-

It nodded the bright blonde head.

-Alright,- Tobias answered. -You keep up your end and I'm your soldier.-

-

Two years passed before anything happened. Rachel didn't magically appear anywhere and Tobias kept living like he always had. He kept his new abilities from the surviving Animorphs with ease—he hadn't spoken to any of them, even Ax, since Rachel died.

And then, the day after Tobias turned twenty-five, he woke up to a young blonde woman lying in his meadow, and he knew before he saw her face that she was his Rachel.

As he helped her up and explained what all had happened in the near-ten years since she died, Tobias thought to the yellow-eyed shadow, _Whatever you want, I'm yours. _


	12. The Crow

**Title**: they said he was a dangerous man

**Fandom**: "Supernatural"/_The Crow_ crossover

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. Title from "Independence Day" performed by Martina McBride.

**Warnings**: spoilers for "Bloody Mary"

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 460

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Dedication**: _SadeLyra_te, who requested this crossover

* * *

Dad took them to Detroit the fall of the year before Dean graduated. Sam immersed himself in school, ignoring the crime-strewn streets around them. Dean never left Sam alone the whole five months they were there, except for three consecutive nights.

The week prior to Halloween, Sam noticed that Dean kept waking up. Dean never had nightmares, unlike Sam, so Sam found it worrisome. Dean just blew off his concerns.

Then on Halloween night—Dad away on his hunt, fourth day in a row—Dean sat Sam on the couch and said, "_Do not_ leave the apartment. Keep the door and windows locked and salted. Do not let anyone in—if someone tries to force their way in, shoot them." Dean gripped Sam's chin, looking him eye-to-eye. "_Do you understand?"_

Dean was solemn it frightened Sam. "Where're you goin'?"

His brother just repeated, "Sammy. Do you understand?"

Sam nodded and Dean left.

Dean came back at dawn, the stench of fire and blood clinging to him. He didn't explain anything and Sam worried in silence.

November first followed in the same fashion, then the anniversary of Mom's death. Dad called but Sam said nothing of his concerns.

Sam watched the news and read the paper—someone dubbed 'The Crow' had killed all three nights, but only criminals. He had no idea if it was Dean or not, and could think of no way to ask.

But as dusk drew near on the third, Dean made no move to leave. He sat beside Sam on the couch and asked, "What're we watchin'?"

Sam considered asking for a single heartbeat, but instead told his brother, "A documentary about tigers."

"Tigers? Awesome."

-

They left Detroit on the tenth, Dad's hunt successful. Sam was not sorry to go.

He never thought long of the three nights he spent alone while The Crow—whoever that might be—stalked the streets, stealing lives.

Soon his worries seemed unfounded, so he let them.

-

When Dean's eyes bled, Sam wondered. He thought about those years of separation; he remembered childhood, reconsidering secrets.

He decided it must have been Detroit. But couldn't think of a way to ask, so he never did.

------

Dean remembers Detroit in a fever. Nothing sticks out in his mind—it's all foggy and hazy and confused.

He doesn't know what happened those nights, and he can't recall the dreams that chased him onto the streets.

His suspicions, though, make accepting Sam's death-visions easier.

He remembers a large black bird; his research labels it a crow. He remembers a kind, laughing voice that told him _It can't rain all the_ _time_.

But the only vibrant, lasting memory of their handful of months in Detroit is sitting beside Sam and watching a show about tigers, feeling at peace.


	13. Buffy the Vampire Slayer

**Title**: Taste in Music

**Fandom**: "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" crossover

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun.

**Warnings**: pre-pilot for "Supernatural"; during Xander's roadtrip for BtVS

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 830

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

"Is this seat taken?"

Dean Winchester looked up from his book—_Changer_by Jane Lindskold—at the young man who stood by the table, a nervous look on his face. Dean shook his head, shut the book, and said, "Take it."

The boy—he really couldn't have been older than nineteen, if that, and Dean was only twenty-one himself, but felt centuries older—grinned and plopped down. "Thanks." He sighed, rubbing his neck, and said, "I don't know why it's so crowded on a Thursday."

Dean glanced around the diner; he'd been so engrossed in his book, he hadn't noticed the place fill up. He kicked himself in the ass for that: needed to keep his skills sharp, or he, Sammy, and Dad might pay the price. Jenny, the waitress, came over and the boy ordered a sandwich and water. As she walked away, he held out his hand over the table; "I'm Xander," he said with a smile.

Dean took his hand and shook, saying, "Dean." They sat in uncomfortable silence for a few moments before Xander asked, "What book is that?" nodding to the novel by Dean's elbow.

Dean handed it over. "_Changer**,"**_ he said. "I don't usually enjoy reading; I leave it to my brother. But this one..." he shrugged. "It called to me."

Xander scanned the back of the book. "Look's interesting," he said, handing it back. Dean shoved it into his pack. They passed the time talking about sports, actresses, and the weather until Xander's food came and Dean studied Xander as he ate. Xander had shaggy brown hair, a nice build—**_must be a fighter, _**Dean noted. All in all, Xander reminded Dean of Sammy.

"Not from around here, are you?" Xander asked. He'd finished his sandwich and drained his water, smiling at Dean's incredulous look as he set his cup down. "Your accent—I've heard it on TV but never real life." His face darkened for a moment, but lightened so quickly Dean would have wondered if he'd imagined it, except that he'd been trained to notice things like that. Xander changed the topic by asking, "How old is your brother?"

"Seventeen," Dean said, and would have continued talking about Sammy, except Jenny came by to ask if they wanted refills.

"Just the check," Xander told her. "Put 'em together."

Dean raised an eyebrow as she bustled away and Xander said, "I'll pay." He half-smiled, the look fading at Dean's stare.

"You don't have to," Dean told him, and would have explained, but Xander cut him off. "I know that, Dean. But you remind me of someone I used to know, and I just..." his voice trailed off and he looked away.

Dean felt his heart clench as realized what Xander meant. "Okay, Xander." The boy looked back at him; Dean met his eyes square on. "You can pay."

If Dean lost Sammy, he didn't know what he would do. If he could help someone else ease the pain of a brother's passing, so be it.

When Jenny came back with the combined checks, Xander put down a twenty. Dean packed up all his stuff, drained his water, and stood; Xander stood with him, grabbed his own pack, and followed him out the door. Dean walked over to his car and Xander just stared, mouth open. "That... that's your car?" His voice squeaked at the end, and he flushed.

Dean smirked in his direction, lovingly patting his beloved Impala on the hood. "Yep." He followed Xander's gaze to an old, broken-down convertible. Quickly, Dean's mind ran through options. He could leave, head on back home and leave Xander here, with no one he knew. Or he could drop Xander off somewhere, wherever he wanted to go.

Dean glanced back into Xander's eyes. "Bye, Dean," Xander said, shouldering his backpack and turning to walk away.

"How far is your place?" Dean asked, and Xander paused. He looked back at Dean, said, "About one hour that way," gesturing towards the setting sun.

"So why haven't you gone home yet?" Dean queried, leaning against the Impala.

Xander turned back around. "Because I haven't wanted to." He shook his head, hair flopping into his eyes. "There's nothing back there for me."

Dean licked his lips. Dad would be pissed at him for this. "You wanna come with me?"

Xander stared at him. "What?"

Dean shrugged, unlocked the car, opened the door, said, "Just a thought," and slid in. He gunned the engine, waiting.

The passenger door opened, Xander threw his bag into the back, and fell into the car. He shut the door and glanced at Dean. "You call this music?" he asked, grimacing at the noise blaring from Dean's speakers.

Dean laughed. "This is Metallica, man. They're gospel."

"No," Xander said, shaking his head. "You oughta listen to Patsy Cline. Talk about good music."

Dean laughed again, pulling out of the parking lot. "Blasphemer. I'll have to see if I can convert you."


	14. Angel the Series

**Title**: Hunger

**Fandom**: "Angel the Series" crossover

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun.

**Warnings**: AU for AtS season four; AU for "Supernatural" sometime after "Asylum"

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 1735

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

When Samuel Keith Winchester entered the city limits of Los Angeles, something on the air called to him. It hummed in his blood, demanding he seek it out.

He glanced at Dean, passed out in the passenger seat. It had been a long two weeks of hunting something that most certainly did not want to die, and they'd followed it here, to the City of Angels. Sam thought about waking Dean briefly, but decided to wait until he'd gotten them a room.

He cruised the dark streets of LA before finally locating a motel that looked alright. He smoothly pulled into a spot, trying not to wake Dean. He paid for a room and then drove around to it. After he turned off the car, he stared at Dean for a minute, wondering if his older brother had ever looked innocent. If he'd always looked so worn out, so haggard, so... **_old_**.

Sam gently reached out and touched Dean's shoulder. "Wake up, Dean," he softly said.

Dean jerked awake immediately. He glanced quickly at Sam before stretching. "How long was I asleep?" he asked.

"About five hours," Sam replied. "I got us a room."

Dean chuckled. "The thing we're chasing?"

Sam yawned. "It can wait till morning, Dean. We both need a real night's sleep."

Dean yawned in response. "Fine."

-

When Sam woke up the next morning, at 8:00, Dean was in the shower. All of Sam's senses sharpened as the... whatever-it-was screamed for him again. He shuddered, contemplated telling Dean, and then decided against it. Dean already had too much to think about; he didn't need Sam's problems, too.

Sam rolled out of the bed, stretching to his full height. Being cramped in that car for hours upon hours always made him wish he was shorter. He popped his neck and called to Dean, "What do you want for breakfast? I'm going out."

Over the sound of the shower, Sam heard, "Donuts and coffee!"

Sam snorted, grabbed the keys, and headed out the door.

-

Sam returned to the room about an hour later, with a dozen donuts and three coffees. He didn't drink the stuff himself, but Dean loved it. And Dean needed all the energy he could get.

The... thing still sang to Sam, demanding he seek it out, but he refused to. He knew what could come of searching out the supernatural that hadn't hurt anyone yet.

He again contemplated telling Dean and again discarded the notion.

Sam placed the box of donuts on the table and the cup tray beside it. Dean glanced up from their dad's journal and breathed, "Coffee," then lunged towards it. Sam chuckled and shook his head. "You are so weird, Dean."

Dean smiled at him.

-

They killed the day researching, surfing the web and dusty old tomes. Finally the sun set and they sought out where their prey was hiding.

"Dean, are you sure we should just barge in on it?" Sam wanted to kill the monster as much as Dean did, but he was also the more pragmatic Winchester and knew they hadn't fully researched their foe.

The last time that happened, Sam had shot Dean through a wall. He did not want a repeat.

"It'll be fine, Sam," Dean assured him. And if the hum wasn't back in his blood, Sam would have believed him.

-

Angelus, the Demon With An Angel's Face, stalked the city of his souled-counterpart. God, but he was bored. Messing with Angel's friends did grow tiresome after a while. Torturing the random passerby was fun, but so... **_overdone_**. Someone like Angelus needed a new pastime.

And then he saw them, the most beautiful men since dear William more than a century before.

Brothers, without a doubt. Their movements were perfectly synchronized, like they knew where the other would be before he thought. Angelus and Spike used to fight that way, before the soul.

One was taller and younger, with darker hair. The other... if Angelus were not Angelus he'd have written sonnets about this man's beauty.

As he watched the fight the two had with the Rokin demon, Angelus realized that the way to the men was the younger brother. As strong as he was, he clearly was the weaker one. Angelus licked his lips as they killed the Rokin. He smiled as he followed them out of the alley and back to their hotel room.

-

In the middle of their fight with the homicidal demon, the calling in Sam's blood climaxed and he nearly collapsed. He caught himself just in time and noticed Dean's look before Dean swung his ax again. Damnit, they'd be talking about this.

Sam leapt back into the battle, feeling someone watching them. The sense of dark eyes trailing over his body actually aided him in the fight, because he wanted to impress whoever it was that watched, odd as that may sound.

Together he and Dean killed the demon, then headed back for the hotel. Sam thought about telling Dean they were being followed, but chose not to.

"Quit thinking so loud," Dean wearily told him, dropping onto his bed. "God, I'm beat." Sam gave him a look and fell onto his bed, as well.

The hum grew and the presence neared, but Sam was so tired... his last conscious thought happened to be, **_I'll worry about it in the morning. _**

**_- _**

****Angelus smiled. A hotel—no invitation needed. He padded up to the door, listened to their heartbeats, the blood singing in their veins, smelled their delightful bouquet of scents.

The younger would be easier: less wary, more naïve. Not to mention, he probably still believed in his own invincibility.

Angelus touched the door then faded back into the night.

-

Sam woke the next morning straining to remember his dreams. He knew something important lurked in the recesses of his mind, and if only he could figure out what it was...

"Sam, **_please_** quit thinking. It hurts my head." Dean's voice cut through Sam's wondering, and he glanced over. Dean grinned at him, and Sam smiled in response.

"We have to leave LA," Sam said. That much he knew with absolute certainty.

"Sammy, we need to rest, earn money for gas, and rest. We're not going anywhere anytime soon... unless you can give me a concrete reason." Dean sat up and stared Sam in the eyes.

Sam swallowed. "I just... Dean..." He combed his fingers through his hair. He couldn't articulate the reason without explaining everything, and he couldn't do that. Not yet. He wasn't ready to speak the words and Dean wasn't ready to listen. Sam shook his head and Dean smiled, a bit sadly, Sam thought, but that could have been a trick of the dim light.

-

Nearly a week passed in relative quiet. No damsels needed rescuing, no evil needed slaughtering, and nothing sang in Sam's blood. He and Dean passed the time getting their first good rest in nearly six months. No nightmares haunted either of them; no memories twisted kept them from sleeping.

Sam began to think he'd imagined everything, until he met a man on the street one night.

-

Dean told him not to leave the room, but Sam, of course, insisted on doing so. "It's after midnight, Sam," Dean said, with one of his patented 'Are you a complete imbecile begging for the Foolkiller to get you?' looks, but Sam just smiled him off.

"I know it's after midnight, Dean, but I can take care of myself. I'll be fine." He grinned at Dean and walked out the door.

He spent the rest of his life regretting it.

-

Angelus watched the beautiful brothers from afar. Patience was one of the good things of immortality. Five nights passed in silence; he did not go near them. He haunted their steps but never got within a mile.

Being a master vampire is so fucking **_cool_**.

He informed the demonic community that Angelus had claimed them; they were his, and if anyone so much as **_thought_** of touching them... well, really, they'd regret it.

And then the younger one left the room alone at the witching hour and Angelus smiled at the dark god who allowed it to happen.

-

As Sam neared the all-night deli, the hum returned and became a shriek. He slapped his hands to his ears as though that'd help, and begged for Dean to come and find him. Dean would make it better.

"Are you alright?" a male voice asked and Sam glanced up through the pain. A large man stood there—**_that's not a man, _**an instinct whispered—and suddenly the shriek vanished. Sam felt oddly empty.

"I'm fine," he said.

The man-shaped thing slowly smirked and Sam realized that he was up shit-creek without the hope of a paddle, and he could only pray Dean knew how much he loved him.

-

Angelus smirked at the beautiful child; oh, he never tired of the scent of human fear. Each human smelled different when they were frightened, and this one smelled of... well, Angelus was no poet, but William would have penned something like: **_Lost hopes and dying dreams filled the air. The poor little boy, abandoned by all thoughts of the sun. _**

****The young man was frozen, staring into Angelus eyes, and the master vampire decided to take pity on him. "What is your name?" he inquired.

"Samuel," the boy replied.

"Sam," Angelus murmured, reaching out and placing his hand on the boy's face. Sam shuddered at the contact and Angelus smiled again. He traced Sam's jawbone and licked his lips. "We're going to have such fun together," Angelus purred.

Sam paled.

-

Dean woke up and Sammy wasn't in the room. **_Something's wrong, _**his older-brother sense said, and Dean had learned long ago to listen to it. "I told you not to go out, Sammy," Dean muttered, rolling off the bed. He quickly pulled on his shoes, grabbed his keys, and rushed to the car.

Something told him, though, that he'd never be in time.

And he wasn't.

-

He woke hungry.

"**_Sammy_**!" he heard. And then all he heard was the blood, pounding through the prey's body. "Sammy, damnit, **_answer_** me!"

The being formally called Sam Winchester bared his teeth in a blood-hungry smile and lunged at the man searching for him.

He was hungry. It was time to feast.


	15. Dark Angel

**Title**: Selene's Sons

**Fandom**: "Dark Angel"/"Supernatural" crossover

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun.

**Warnings**: AU for "Dark Angel" after "Pollo Loco"; spoilers for season two of "Supernatural"

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 655

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

Ben first dreamed of a little brother the night he escaped Manticore. He collapsed in the snow miles from the facility, more exhausted and exhilarated than he'd ever been before, and he dreamed of himself as a brother, watching out for a little boy named Sammy.

He woke and felt cheated to be alone.

-

Ben began enjoying sleep, because it continued the adventures of him and Sammy. Sammy always called him _Dean_, but Ben didn't mind. He'd never been alone before the break out, and whenever he dreamed about Sammy, he wasn't lonely anymore.

-

The years passed and in his dreams _Sammy_ grew into _Sam_. Ben searched everywhere he went, looking for green eyes and floppy dark hair. He turned to his goddess for aid, but she didn't respond. He began hunting for sacrifices for her, hoping to please her.

Then one night, Ben dreamed of Dean's death. Sam collapsed beside Dean's body, screaming for his brother to wake up, but Dean didn't respond.

There were no more dreams after that.

Zach had told Ben that Max—the favorite of his sisters—had territory in Seattle, so Ben went there. She was family, and he sorely wanted family.

He wanted Sammy, the closeness Dean—the man with his face—and Sam had, but he'd never get it. He had no blood connections.

-

When Max snapped his neck, Ben thought he'd die. There was no pain, just… nothing. And then he found a soft light and a lady in a blue robe who told him to go back, he wasn't finished yet.

_You have a twin brother, Benjamin_, she said. _He is still held prisoner in Manticore. Save him._

Ben promised, _I will, Lady._

She smiled, and her dark eyes shifted to a holy yellow. _I know you will, my child. You always were my special boy. _

-

Ben woke in a plastic bag and clawed his way out quickly. Alone in a van—on the way back for study, no doubt. So they could figure out what went wrong with him.

But he knew, now—the Blue Lady was real. And she had given him a mission. He would obey her command, prove himself worthy of her favor. He would save his brother.

-

Ben heard Lydecker order for him to be taken to the lab. There'd be no guard; after all, he was dead. Just two technicians carrying his body. Ben hid back in the bag, holding it closed. He allowed them to move him and waited till it was just him and the doctor.

He killed the doctor swiftly and tracked down the main office. His brother would either be 492 or 494, and he needed to find out where.

Three guards in the office, and four technicians. He ripped through them like paper, then hacked the system.

X5-494, recently failed his first long-term mission, being held in the basement of the very facility Ben stood in.

Ben wasted no time. The alarm had yet to be raised, and he ghosted his way down, sidestepping guards and scientists. When he got to the cells, he listened for heartbeats. And there it was: his twin's pulse, slow and steady.

_You'll need a name_, Ben thought as he keyed in the code.

The door opened and Ben got his first look at his mirror image, huddled in the far corner, nearly comatose.

Ben stepped in, keeping his movements calm. "Hey, little brother," he murmured, kneeling before his twin. "I've come to get you out of here."

Eyes identical to his own blinked and focused on him. "Escape?" his brother rasped.

Ben nodded. "C'mon, Sammy," he said, holding out a hand. "You have to make the first move—I'll take care of the rest."

His twin studied his hand before lifting his own.

-

In a prison of blood and flesh and bone and fear, a yellow-eyed shadow howled—whether with mirth or pain, no one but it knew.


	16. Smallville

**Title**: the eyes that no one owns

**Fandom**: "Supernatural"/"Smallville" crossover

**Disclaimer**: none of them are mine; written because… just 'cause. title from Anne Sexton.

**Warnings**: AU for "Smallville" during season four; AU for "Supernatural" pre-pilot

**Pairings**: none, really

**Rating**: PG13

**Wordcount**: 1150

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

She was not always wealthy. In fact, as a young girl she was quite poor, living in the slums of London. She was a whore's daughter, never knew her father(or maybe she did—daughter of a whore, she became a whore herself, and might have even serviced him), and had no schooling to speak of. She had no prospects, no safe haven, and when old Marjorie told her a legend about dealmakers and crossroads, she wasted no time in following the instructions.

The demon came to her in the guise of a gorgeous male: tall, broad, dark brown hair and piercing blue eyes. By light of the moon, she'd never seen so beautiful a man.

"What do you want?" the demon asked her, blue eyes turning red.

"Wealth," she answered. "More money than I could spend in a thousand lifetimes."

The demon nodded, reaching out to cup her cheek. "It is yours, my dear." He pulled her close, sealing his lips over hers.

The next night, one of her frequent clients, third cousin to the queen, asked her to marry him. She said yes and his fortune became hers.

-

In ten years, the demon came back for her. He caressed her face and brushed his stolen lips across her skin. "Would you like to make another deal?"

"You would do that?" she asked, gazing up at him with faux-innocence.

"Yes," he whispered. "There's a thorn in my side that I need to dispose of, and you provide the perfect opportunity."

"Tell me."

-

And so she was given a son in four years time. Henry was delighted, of course. Everyone told her what a beautiful child he was. She merely smiled up at them, cradling her boy, her salvation.

_Take care of him, _the demon had said, this time with yellow eyes. _He'll have an important part to play in the future. Raise him well. Keep him safe, and your deal will not come due. _

_And what do I name him?_ she inquired.

The demon shrugged. _It doesn't matter._

She named him Jason, after the man who won the Golden Fleece.

Her son would do even better.

-

Jason was smart and talented; but he lacked ambition. She taught him all she knew, provided the best teachers, and he still floundered. She gave him everything in the world and could tell he still wasn't happy.

She'd wondered for years where he came from, who the demon had stolen him away from. But she'd never gone searching. She figured there are some things a mother just didn't need to know. Maybe he'd be happy, though, if he knew what he was missing.

Not that he ever would. Not if she had anything to say about it. He was her boy, no one else's. Not anymore.

-

She had his entire life planned out, even the woman he would marry. So she sent him to Paris, knowing the girl he'd meet there, sweet and perfect Lana Lang.

When Jason followed Lana to Smallville, she wasn't surprised in the least, though Henry was pissed. It was all part of the plan, to keep Jason happy and safe, and if he wanted to be with the girl(like she knew he did), then she was content.

But Jason called her up, five weeks into his position at Smallville High, and just breathed over the line for a minute.

"Darling?" she asked, concerned. "Is everything alright?"

He scoffed. "You _bitch_."

She sucked in a breath. "Jason, what?"

His voice got low and mean, like she had never once heard him before. "You really thought I'd never find out?"

"Find out what, Jason?" She had a good idea, though.

"Goodbye." He said it softly. Concretely.

But she would not let him go without a fight, and she had a private jet taking her to Kansas within the hour.

-

She'd made it a point to know everything that happened in her son's life, so she knew exactly where to go to find him. If he wasn't at his dorm, he'd be at Lana's—she located him within ten minutes of setting foot in Smallville.

He was sitting in The Talon, sipping hot chocolate from a dark mug(her boy never had liked coffee) and across the small table from a man in a leather coat. Her breath caught as the man turned and she saw him in profile—he could be Jason, had Jason's life been any harder. Had Jason been only a few years older.

Jason looked past his double and met her eyes, his face shuttering. His double followed his gaze, eyes settling on her.

She had never been easily intimidated, and she'd come to reclaim her son. She'd raised him, given him anything he'd ever wanted, and she never lost.

"Jason, darling," she said, pausing by the table. "It's so good to see you."

"Hello," he responded, voice colder than she'd ever heard it. "Genevieve, I'd like you to meet my brothers, Dean and Sam Winchester."

She smiled at Dean, the one sitting at the table, and then stiffened as someone came up behind her, edged around her, to sit in the third chair.

Dean nodded to her, a sharp smile on his face. The other, Sam, had no expression as he said, "Ma'am."

"Jason," she said, "I don't know what these men have told you, but I swear they cannot be your brothers. Let's speak privately."

"You're not goin' anywhere alone with him," Dean interjected, voice slightly deeper than Jason's. Dangerous. "Ma'am," he added, with an ironic twist of his lips. "Since somehow you stole him, we don't trust you. You understand."

She wanted to be offended. "He is _my son_," she bit out, anger clouding her judgment about making a scene. "I've spent twenty-one years taking care of him!"

Dean met Sam's eyes, then Jason's. "It's your call," Sam said.

Jason looked up at her; she didn't recognize the expression in his eyes. "I told you," he said. "Goodbye."

She shook her head. "You're mine, Jason. And I'll get you back." She glanced at Sam, then Dean. "One way or the other." She strode from The Talon, defeat bitter on her tongue.

-

That night, as she paced in her mansion in London, the demon, the second demon that gave her Jason, came to her.

"You've failed," he said. "They were never supposed to meet, Jason and his brothers."

"Well, they have," she snarled, glaring at it. "So now what are you going to do?"

"We had a deal, whore," he murmured, trailing fingers along her jaw. "You failed to keep your end."

Fear shot through her. "No, please—I can still get him back."

"He's met Dean," the demon told her. "He will never go back. It's a strong bond, twinship. Even one cut by years."

She didn't understand, but the demon's fingers tightened around her neck and she never got the chance to ask.


	17. Greek mythology 3

**Title**: and the kingdom comes

**Fandom**: "Supernatural"/Greek mythology crossover

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. Title from Anne Sexton

**Warnings**: future!fic; sugary enough to rot your teeth

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 670

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

_He's never believed in anything but Dad and Sammy. He's not expecting much, when the hounds come with no mistress and no master, beyond unending pain. And it'll be worth it, being torn apart forever. Because Sam's alive, because Sam will live. He promised Dean to make it worth it._

_He promised. And Dean believes in Sam's word._

_He's not expecting much on the other side. But there is a long stone corridor, and the hounds trot beside him, midnight-black tongues lolling out of their mouths. He follows them, the largest often looking back to make sure. There are entrances, arches hanging above, with golden words in languages he cannot read. Soon, he stops looking; those openings are not for him._

_He follows the hounds, and they keep going._

_It is not hot, nor is it cold; there is no sun, but bouncing candlelight. The dogs shine silver and black and gray, the leader alone white, and Dean doesn't understand. Where is the hellfire and torture? He sold his soul to a demon, and this corridor is not Hell, as far as he can tell._

_The lead hound looks over her shoulder and grins. _

_Dean shrugs and keeps following. Better this passageway than Hell. Much better, even if it never ends._

_**Come, Hunter, **__a sexless voice murmurs, echoing off the stone. __**You have earned such a rest as only the greatest receive. **_

_The dogs surge forward, baying in joy and triumph. Dean sprints after them, excitement mounting. This corridor has an end, after all, and it will not be in Hell. _

_**Hunter, soldier, warrior, **__the voice continues, wolfsong and oceanroar, avalanche and hurricane. __**Come home.**_

_The arch is golden, warm like sunlight. The dogs stream through it, but Dean pauses. Looking at it, at how welcoming it is, he doesn't think himself worthy._

_The white dog comes back for him, a tall woman at her back. She is blonde and hazel-eyed, familiar, and Dean stares._

_"Jessica?" he asks._

_She smiles gently, dropping a hand onto the dog's head. "No," she answers. "I went by that name once, and many others. But here I am called something else entirely." In her voice is wolfsong, and Dean's mythology comes back. _

_"Huntress," he says, and she nods._

_"Here I am called Artemis, or Diana, or a thousand other variations." She holds out her hand, palm up. "Come with me, Dean. You have earned this. He will be home, one day. He will join us, here in the warrior's paradise."  
_

_A man steps through the arch, broad and strong, a mane of brown hair billowing down his back. "Artemis, your brother is looking for you." _

_"Tell him I'll be right there, Achilles," she responds without looking away from Dean. _

_The man, Achilles, greatest warrior ever born, rolls his eyes and turns. "Errand boy for gods," he mutters. _

_Dean scoffs, shaking his head. "Is this real?" he asks._

_The white dog noses his hand, whuffling. __**Come with us, **__that sexless voice repeats, this time with a feminine tint. __**You are our son and our brother; you belong to us, with us. Forever.**_

_He hadn't expected much when he followed the hounds into the abyss. He had never believed in anything but Dad and Sam, and Mommy's memory._

_The white dog has deep green eyes, that shift hazel as he watches. __**Come home, Dean. **__The voice is now familiar, loved. _

_"Mom," he whispers._

_"On the other side," Jessica-Artemis says, "she has another shape." The hand has not been lowered, and Dean takes it, grips it hard. _

_The archway beckons, his fate one step away. But one final thought halts that single step. "Sammy," he says. "He'll join us here?"_

_"Yes." Jessica-Artemis grins at him. "I doubt anything could keep him away." _

_He follows her, the white dog—Mom?—beside him, and Achilles greets him on the other side. _

_"Welcome, brother," he says. The white dog shifts, grows taller and changes form, and Dad steps forward._

_"Dean," both whisper. _

_It is paradise—or will be, when Sam comes home.  
_


	18. Gilmore Girls

**Title**: the truth is out there

**Fandom**: "Supernatural"/"Gilmore Girls" crossover

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun.

**Warnings**: AU for "Supernatural" during season two

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 1040

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Dedication**: pheebs1 for her birthday

**Prompts**: Dean Forester's loyalty, Andy, Henriksen 

* * *

"Got a newbie for you, Vic," Andy Gallagher called, leading a tall kid into Henriksen's office. 

"I've told you not to call me that, Gallagher," Victor said without looking up.

"Trust me," Gallagher said, laughter in his voice. "You wanna meet this one."

Rolling his eyes, Victor raised his head.

He couldn't think of a thing to say except, "Holy fuck."

o0o

Victor couldn't stop staring at him. The new kid—Dean Forester—looked almost exactly like Sam fucking _Winchester_. Not quite as tall or broad, nowhere near as intimidating, but enough to pass for a twin.

Forester fidgeted under the scrutiny, keeping his gaze anywhere but on Victor. Gallagher didn't stop smirking.

"He gets to be our third wheel for awhile," Gallagher explained. "New to the field and all." 

Victor nodded. "Got a voice, kid?" he asked.

Forester flicked his gaze up. "Yes." He sounded petulant, like he didn't want to be there. 

Victor raised an eyebrow. Gallagher grinned.

o0o

Gallagher was the best partner Victor ever had. Victor never did quite figure out just how Gallagher joined the department, but it didn't seem like too big a deal.

Forester was alright; not the best agent, but not the worst Victor'd ever been partnered with. According to all the records, he wasn't related to the Winchesters.

That was the kind of coincidence that had Victor considering maybe Dean Winchester wasn't quite wrong about not killing all those women in St. Louis. He tried to steer clear of those kinds of thoughts whenever possible.

o0o

"So," Victor asked the second week, stuck in a boring-as-all-hell stake-out. "How'd you get into this job?"

Forester shrugged. "Construction didn't work out."

Victor considered that for a moment. Better than his own story, no doubt about it.

o0o

Driving back to the office in the morning, Victor asked, "So, who was it?"

"Who was who?" Forester asked in return. "Man, you don't make any sense."

Victor rolled his eyes. Boy was a smartass, of course. First Gallagher, now Forester—sometimes, Victor really missed Reid. "Who was it that chased you to the Bureau?" 

Forester paused, looking down at his hands. "A pretty girl with dark hair." 

Victor nods. "Me, too."

o0o

Forester was with them when the lucky break came and he freaked right out when face to face with the Winchesters.

Dean just stared, then chuckled.

Sam just stared.

o0o

The Winchesters broke out of custody within two days. Gallagher called in his vacation time. Forester was transferred to another division.

Victor puttered around the office, waiting for something to happen.

The phone rang. "Henriksen."

"Hey, Vic," Gallagher said. "Listen, you know how Dean Winchester is nucking futs?"

"Gallagher?" Victor glanced around the office. "Where you been?"

"Victor." Gallagher's voice was serious, echoey. "Dean Winchester is not insane. We need your help, you and Dean Forester."

o0o

Victor called Forester. The kid came running. 

o0o

Dean Winchester had almost been cut in half. Forester stared, fascinated. Sam's eyes tracked him, from where he sat on the bed, holding Dean, often going back to his brother.

"He needs a hospital!" Victor said. 

"No," Gallagher corrected. "He needs a fucking miracle."

Forester licked his lips, stepping closer. He looked so young, compared to Sam. 

Victor turned back to Gallagher. "Why are we here?"

"There's things, Vic," Gallagher told him. "Things out in the dark. They're evil and nasty, and exist only to cause good people pain." Gallagher's eyes were completely sincere. "Dean and Sam fight those things. Those things fight back."

Victor glanced over. Dean was pale, gray, barely breathing. Sam was desperate and angry, covered in his brother's blood. Forester was right beside the bed, fingers curled into loose fists.

"Did it hurt?" he whispered.

As far as Victor could tell, no one answered. Sam looked up at the kid with disbelieving eyes, but didn't say a thing. And Dean sure as hell wasn't coherent enough.

But Forester nodded. Reached forward, over Sam, lightly placed a hand on Dean's bare skin.

Sam snarled. Only word for it. Gallagher said softly, "Let him, Sam. Trust me."

Victor was completely lost, a feeling he truly despised. "Gallagher," he growled.

Gallagher didn't even spare him a glance, just kept watching the kid and the Winchesters. "Calm down, Vic," he said, voice going echoey again.

For some reason, Victor did, turning his gaze to the bed and the dying man on it.

Except, Dean looked better. His skin wasn't as pale, the horrific gash across his torso smaller, less bloody and gaping. "What the hell?" Victor whispered.

Sam's eyes were wide, going from his brother to his look alike and back.

"I am just that good," Gallagher said. 

"Andy…" Sam's voice was filled with wonder.

"Sam," Gallagher said. "Meet Dean Forester."

o0o

By sundown, Dean's stomach was no longer torn open. He hadn't woken up, but his breathing was easier, his skin regaining color and warmth. Sam kept smoothing his hair, murmuring, and Victor had to look away from the intimacy of it.

"Gallagher," he asked. "What the fuck is going on?"

Forester was curled up on the second bed, passed out. Victor'd had to help him the few feet to it, eased him down. 

"Some people, Vic," Gallagher told him, "have abilities. Telekinesis. Telepathy. Premonitions. Stuff like that." Gallagher didn't meet his eyes. 

"Abilities," Victor repeated. 

"Thank you," Sam said softly; they both looked over.

"I should arrest you," Victor stated. "Again." 

Sam calmly met his eyes. "You couldn't keep us."

Victor sighed. "I know."

o0o

By dawn, both Forester and Dean were up and about. Forester bounced back after the night's sleep, the eager newbie Fed. Dean was moving slower, carefully. His gaze kept shooting from Victor to Forester to Sam.

"Andy," he asked. "What's going on?"

"You live in a soap-opera, man," Gallagher answered.

That was another thing bugging Victor about the whole thing: his partner knew the fugitives, clearly.

"Gallagher," he said. "We need to get back to the office and do our best to forget this incident."

Gallagher shook his head. "Sorry, Vic. I retired."

Dean snickered and then hissed in pain.

o0o

Victor returned to Washington alone. He sat at his desk and tried to think of calm water, rainfall, anything calming.

Now he'd have to train up a new partner. 

Damn it.


	19. Dark Angel 2

**Title**: I saw the fields beyond the fields  
**Fandom**: "Supernatural"/"Dark Angel"

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. Title from Dar Williams

**Warnings**: future!fic for "Supernatural"; AU for "Dark Angel" during season one

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Wordcount**: 1155  
**Dedication**: taniapretender , for her birthday  
**Prompt**: Jess as an X5.

* * *

She wanders into the church one chilly autumn day. It is old and gilded, drafty. But comforting, in a religious sort of way.

Comforting. She snorts delicately and sinks down onto a pew.

Somewhere in this city two of her siblings are roaming. She can feel them.

She stays at church all night, stretched out on the pew. She doesn't sleep.

She has to put him down. He's dangerous to all of them. He's broken, can't be mended. They've all tried.

She raises her head when her sister strides in, regal and powerful as a queen.

Max, of course. Max the strong; Max, Lydecker's favorite.

One found, then.

o0o

She doesn't speak to Max, doesn't move. Max must be rusty, to not sense her. The priest talks to Max and then goes away.

And he walks in, the most beautiful of her brothers—lost, confused Ben. He briefly glances at her, but keeps going to his Lady's altar.

Max tries to stalk him, but he whirls to face her.

She doesn't stay to see how things play out; she already knows.

o0o

"Ben," she calls, entering the Needle, his High Place. "I know you're here, Ben."

"Jess," he says, stepping out of the shadows.

"You have to stop, Ben. You're endangering us all." She doesn't want to kill him. He's always been her favorite sibling; she loves him more than she ever has anyone else.

"I can't, Jessie." His voice is soft, his eyes fragile. "She needs the offering—it makes her strong."

Jess wants to weep. Oh, _Ben_. "Ben, please."

He smiles, slowly drifting closer. "I missed you, Jessie. You understand, don't you?"

He is only a hand's-length taller than her, his large hazel eyes full of determination. He seems so young; she's never felt this much older than her poor, deluded brother.

"Ben," she says gently, reaching out to touch his cheek. "You created her, remember? You made her for us."

He flinches back, eyes narrowing. "Don't say that, Jess." His body tightens, jaw clenching.

"Ben," she says sorrowfully.

He glares. "Leave me alone, Jess. I thought you understood."

She sighs, holding her hands open at her side. She honestly doesn't know who would win if they fought, and she doesn't want to hurt him. Has never wanted to hurt him.

Memories ache within her, those months they spent together after the escape. He took care of her and she adored him. Still adores him. But she sees him for what he is, now. The world beyond Manticore's walls is too much for him. So little makes sense out here.

She entreats, "Ben. You have to stop. Zack is hunting you."

He stiffens, straightening his spine. "Why?"

She steps forward. "To kill you, Ben. Because you're endangering us all."

Ben stares at her, nibbling his bottom lip.

An idea comes to her, and she wonders why she hadn't thought of it earlier. "Ben, I know a man who could help you. He…" She pauses, wondering how to explain so that Ben will listen. "He took me in, after we split up."

Ben lowers his head. "You tracked me down to kill me, didn't you, Jessie?"

She cannot lie to him. "Yes. But, please… come with me. Let me take you to him. Trust me that long."

He meets her gaze; by his eyes, she knows a part of him wants to die.

"Okay," he says, holding out a hand. "I've always trusted you."

She grips his hand, pulling him close to kiss his lips. "I love you, Ben," she whispers. Louder, she says, "He'll help you. I know he will."

It should have occurred to her before: if anyone can save Ben, can bring him back, it's Sam Winchester.

o0o

Ben follows her without question, always at her back. It takes them a month to reach Kansas and he balks at the state line. It's the one state she knows he's never set in.

"Ben?"

He looks down. "The Blue Lady," he says haltingly. "She told me nomlies live here."

She rubs his arm. "Trust me, Ben."

He takes a deep breath and murmurs, "Okay."

In the middle of Kansas, in an old house, lives the only other person in the world she'd unhesitatingly die for. After she and Ben had been driven apart for safety, he took her in, gave her shelter, and taught her how to live.

Jess knocks on the door, Ben clutching her hand, and knows everything will be alright now.

"It's open!" his voice calls, so she turns the knob.

"That's not safe!" she calls back, and chuckles when she hears a clatter.

"Jessica!" he exclaims, hurrying into the front hall. He pulls her into a hug, then swiftly pats her down for any injury.

"I'm fine, Sam," she tells him with a long-suffering sigh.

He nods, satisfied with his search. "Of course you are." He looks past her to Ben, and Jess watches in shock as his face pales. He falls back a step, eyes wide and mouth open.

"Dean," he whispers.

Jess looks over her shoulder at Ben, whose face mirrors Sam's. He steps around her, one hand outstretched, looking younger than she can ever remember.

"Dean," Sam says again.

"Sammy," Ben replies, sounding confused. "You're Sammy, but didn't I dream you?"

Sam says, "Jess, I need an explanation right now."

He already knows most of the story, but she tells him everything again.

o0o

Ben falls asleep soon after dusk, curled up on Sam's couch. Jess and Sam watch him for awhile and finally Sam stands. "I need to show you something," he tells her, gently spreading a blanket over Ben. "I probably should have showed you a long time ago."

She follows him through the house, down into the basement. In faint, flickering light, Sam kneels beside a strongbox, flicks the catch, and reverently lifts the lid. "This was my life before the Pulse, Jessica."

He stands back up, one of the few men who's ever towered above her. "Take your time. I'll watch over Dean."

She jerks her gaze from the box in time to see his face crumple in pain. "Ben, I mean. I'll take care of Ben."

"Sam," she says, trepidation dancing in her belly. She does not want to look in that box.

"Please, Jessica." He's the only one who's ever called her that. "You need to understand."

His tone is identical to Ben's, and she smoothly sinks to sit next to the box.

He goes. Jess sucks in a breath, counts to twenty, and reaches into Sam's past.

o0o

Five hours, she sits there and stares at the pictures. Ben. Herself. With a much younger Sam.

Written on the back of one with her tucked into Sam's arms are the words _Sam and Jess, 2005._ She doesn't recognize the handwriting. Written on the back of one that has Sam and Ben are the words _Dean and Sammy, 1999_.

k


	20. Dark Angel 3

**Title**: everybody knows the good guys lost

**Fandom**: "Supernatural"/"Dark Angel" crossover

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. Title from Leonard Cohen

**Warnings**: AU for "Dark Angel"

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 445

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Dedication**: for creeno, in honor of her birthday

**Prompt**: "Nothing God Can Stay," Alec, Ben, and the Impala.

* * *

The sun is setting when Alec finds the car. It's old, big, and black, one of those cars some normal probably used to worship, back before the Pulse. Looks like a gas guzzler, so he'd be better off finding another.

But something about this one, this ancient monster of a car…

"Alec," his brother calls, finally back from his quest to appease his creepy-ass Blue Lady. "You found us a car?"

Alec nods. "This one," he says, patting the black behemoth's hood.

Ben assesses the car, expression softening. "She'll do," he murmurs, tracing her lines with his fingertips.

She's covered in dust; Ben pulls off his jacket and brushes it against her hood. Alec watches in shock—his twin isn't one who cares about worldly possessions, and if he just made an offering(which Alec knows he did), then they need to skedaddle out of town before the poor bastard is discovered.

"Ben," he says. "Don't worry about that."

"She has to be clean," Ben replies, not even glancing up.

Alec grabs his arm. "Ben," he growls. "We're leaving now."

Ben whirls to face him. "She needs to be clean, Alec. Please."

Ben so rarely asks for anything. Alec stares at him, dropping his arm. "After we're away. I promise, you can do whatever you want then. But we have to go _now_."

After a moment, Ben nods. Then he grins, boy-bright, and rushes around the car, calling, "I'm driving!"

Alec says, "Oh, no, _I_ am. I found her!"

Ben laughs, carefree like Alec hasn't heard in… ever. "I'm older, I drive." He starts fiddling with the handle, trying to open the locked door.

"Let's spar," Alec suggests, hopping the car to join Ben. "Winner drives."

The sun sets fully on Ben's smirk. "Thought we had to leave, little brother?"

Alec raises a brow. "I think I taught you too well."

Ben gets the door open and slides in, reaching across to unlock the passenger side. Alec rolls his eyes, but goes back around the car and slips in. Ben grins at him again.

Alec smiles back and says, "After supper, I'm driving."

Ben hotwires the black monster and responds, "Maybe."

The engine growls, sending a thrill through Alec's body, and Ben crows, "Full tank of gas."

"Finally," Alec says. "Somebody's lookin' out for us."

Ben sighs in contentment, shifting into drive. Alec stretches his arm along the back of the seat and yawns. "Drive till we're out of Washington," he says.

Ben nods, fiddling with the radio dials. He pushes a few buttons at random and music roars out; Alec jumps, cursing, and Ben laughs.

Alec cuffs the back of his head, but he's smiling, too.


	21. Touched by an Angel

**Title**: holding you close is like holding the summer sun

**Fandom**: "Supernatural"/"Touched by an Angel" crossover

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from Billy Joel.

**Warnings**: spoilers for "Supernatural" season 4; basic premise of "Touched by an Angel"; AU for "Touched by an Angel"; possible blasphemy and reimagining of angelic lore

**Pairings**: mentions of possible Dean/Castiel

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 1330

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

When Castiel has trouble determining Dean's thought processes and all his superiors are at a loss, as well, he travels to Earth and tracks down an old friend. She has been among humans for awhile and understands them quite well, he thinks—she is just so busy, he does not wish to bother her. So he saves up his questions till he thinks he might burst and then he goes to Monica.

She is comparatively young, not having existed during the War and the Fall. She is low in the hierarchy, having never met Father, or even Michael and Gabriel. She is not battle-hardened or world-weary. She is excitable and innocent, and being around her makes Castiel feel very old.

But he is at the end of his rope. Dean is questioning his every word, refusing to listen, and Sam is—

Castiel shudders. He understands brotherhood, but he would follow Father's command. Dean won't even listen. So before Castiel loses his temper—and what an experience it is, coming so close to anger. So many things are new, the longer he spends with humans—he goes to Monica.

She is in southern Florida, a substitute teacher for third-grade reading. She does not have a vessel; she forms a body and lives in it all the time except when she returns to Heaven for a rest. So could Castiel have done; only now, watching her simple joy at eating a candy bar does he wonder why he did not.

He follows her back to the apartment supplied for this case and knocks on the door. He has manifested a form very much like his vessel and as he waits, he thinks about releasing the vessel, letting the man return to his life. He could keep this form, or manifest another. Live like a human for awhile, not possess a human.

"Castiel!" Monica says. "Oh, it's been too long." She hugs him, kissing his cheek.

Only Monica has ever treated him so familiarly. Even Ananchel, before her Fall, rarely touched him.

"Hello, Monica," he replies, following her into the apartment. "How goes the case?"

"I must help a little boy overcome abuse," she answers, offering him a glass of water. "It's sorely temptin' to smite the man, but Micah must find his strength."

Castiel drains his water, leaning back into the couch. "Have you heard the news?" he asks. Sometimes Monica forgets to check in when she sinks into a case.

"Yes," she says softly. "But I am no Arch. I can do nothin' in battle save pray."

"I have come to you for guidance, Monica." He pauses, searching for words. How to say what he means to? How to describe his problem?

Monica asks, "Do you like humans, Castiel?"

He nods. "I find them fascinating."

She smiles. "The other day, Tess and I were talkin'. She had heard that you'd been given a case of your own, a human of singular difficulty, but also of singular importance. This human, she heard, could change everything."

Castiel bows his head. "She heard right."

Monica pats his shoulder. "And your human is not listening to you. He questions you. He curses and storms off and disrespects you. You long to intimidate him into obedience, but he refuses to be intimidated."

Castiel sits up, staring at her. Her smile is kind, yet full of knowledge. "We caseworkers, Castiel, are the closest to humans. We don't love them for being God's creations; we love them for their laughter and their failures and their chocolate cake. We love them for their newborn smiles and their dying dignity. We are their caretakers and their guardians, and even after centuries with them, we still lack complete understanding."

She leans in conspiratorially. "But you know what, dear Castiel?" he shakes his head and she smiles again, saying, "That's what makes it fun."

She pulls back and stands. "I'm hungry," she announces. "Want a pb and j?"

Castiel stares up at her.

Monica laughs. "A peanut butter and jelly sandwich," she elaborates. "I have strawberry jelly. Have you ever tried it?"

"I have only eaten in a vessel," he says, "to keep up the vessel's strength."

"I'll make you a sandwich," she decides. "Come with me to the kitchen."

He follows her again, this friend he has never fully comprehended. "I do not know what to do," he confesses, watching her bustle around the kitchen, an intricate dance he has observed in thousands of humans. "I have been…" Even to himself, he has not said the words. "I am tempted, Monica. I am tempted by Dean Winchester."

She drops the bread, staring at him. "Castiel," she whispers. "Oh, Castiel." She walks around the counter and pulls him down for a long embrace. "It'll be alright, dear one," she murmurs, petting the back of his neck. "God never gives us more than we can bear, you know."

"I pulled him out of Hell," he tells her, arms wrapping around her. "I cradled his soul close and gently carried it back to life. My handprint is branded on his skin, the only mark left to him."

Castiel is shocked to find tears rolling down his face. His voice is hoarse and thick.

Monica says, "You feel protective of him? You wish to keep him safe, away from hardship and danger?"

Nodding, Castiel pulls back. "I wish to lie with him, Monica. As a man does a woman."

Monica inhales sharply. "Well," she says after a moment. "That is bein' tempted, alright."

"Should I pray?" he asks. "Repent? Go to Father and confess my failure?"

Monica cocks her head, untangling their arms and going back to the sandwich preparations. "How have you failed, Castiel?"

He looks at her. "I am tempted," he repeats. "I wish to… to…" He can't find a word adequate enough.

"You want to fuck him," she supplies matter-of-factly. "It happens when you've been near humans."

Castiel blinks. "_Monica_," he says, scandalized.

She laughs, placing two sandwiches on a small plate. "Castiel," she chuckles, going to the fridge for a gallon of milk. "You are a kind being. You are…" She pours two glasses full, puts the milk up, and carries them to the table.

"I am what?" he asks, nibbling the corner of his sandwich.

She smiles at him. "You are one of the best beings I've ever met."

He ducks his head and she grins. "I don't know what to tell you," she admits. "I don't know Dean." She sips her milk, studying him. As she sets down the glass, a milk mustache above her lip, she says, "Tell me about him."

So he does. He stays the night, talking, and she directs him in making breakfast the next morning. As they eat, she suggests, "Continue as you've been. Guard him, and guide him. He seems a good man."

Castiel says, "He is the best."

Monica's smile is indulgent. "You are full of love, Castiel, and full of wonder. God chose _you_ for this mission, you of all the angels. He believes in you."

Her words do soothe him. "Thank you, Monica," he murmurs, reaching out to take her hand.

She clasps his palm in her hands. "Go back to him. You will know what to do, and whatever it is, it will be right."

He kisses her cheek and leaves. As Castiel returns to the vessel, he decides to release the man and create his own form.

He can still taste the peanut butter from the sandwich, the cheese in the scrambled eggs, the chocolate in the milk. It is so sharp, so vibrant, when not filtered through a vessel.

Castiel understands now why Ananchel Fell, why she chose to live as a human. He wonders how close Monica is.

As he sinks back into the vessel for one final moment, to explain his actions, Castiel wonders what Dean might taste like, and if his human, the soul he cradled next to his heart, would possibly kiss him back.


	22. Ten Inch Hero

**Title**: Give me new phoenix wings

**Fandom**: _Ten Inch Hero_/"Supernatural" crossover

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. Title from Keats

**Warnings**: spoilers for movie

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 200

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

_I can't believe you let that fucker get the drop on you_, Dean grumbles while he's trying to sleep.

_I'm Priestly now_, he explains. _Priestly doesn't know how to fight. _

_What the fuck ever,_ Dean growls. _You're wearin' my face, dude. Tomorrow, we're goin' to the gym and I'm showing you how to kick ass. _

_I don't fight! _Priestly tells him. _And I won't._ He rolls out of bed and goes to the bathroom, looks in the mirror. He didn't take his eye-shadow off but all the piercings are out and his hair is purple, sticking up everywhere. _See that?_ he asks. He's in pretty good shape, but he knows that Dean was fuckin' built.

_I just..._ Dean says.

_I know_, Priestly responds, bringing a hand up to rub his eyes. _But I'm not you, Dean. I'm not you._

He feels Dean sink back, deep into the darkness at the edge of his mind. _I'm sorry_, he says. Dean doesn't respond. He won't, that Priestly knows from experience. For a few days, he'll be alone in his head again.

He goes back to his bed, crawls under the covers. He stares at the ceiling, remembering a brother he never had.


	23. Leverage

**Title**: though they bruised, they did not kill

**Fandom**: "Leverage"/"Supernatural" crossover

**Disclaimer**: not my charcters; just for fun. Title from Anne Sexton.

**Warnings**: spoilers for aired season four of "Supernatural"; spoilers for season one finale of "Leverage"

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 200

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Notes**: written for leverage500, to the prompt of _light_

* * *

_In the beginning_

"Eliot," a male voice says out of nowhere.

He startles, jerks around. No one's snuck up on him in over five years and he flips the knife around in his grip, ready to strike.

The room is empty but for him. Maybe he imagined it; maybe he left the com in his ear. He reaches up to check, but no--the com is with Leverage, which burned in LA. He's alone here.

But the voice contradicts him by saying his name again.

"Who's there?" he demands, palming a second knife.

A crack of light blinds him; when he can see again, a man stands there, in a wrinkled beige trenchcoat. "Eliot," he says.

Eliot strikes, jamming one knife into the guy's chest and slitting his throat with the other. But the man doesn't go down; he just brings a hand up to the knife in his chest and pulls it out.

"That is tiresome," he says.

Eliot stares, whispers, "The fuck?" as the man's throat heals up without a scratch.

The man says somberly, "I am Castiel, an angel of the Lord. We have work for you."

Mouth open, Eliot can't think of a thing to say.


	24. Ten Inch Hero 2

**Title**: O for the touch of a vanished hand

**Fandom**: _Ten Inch Hero_/"Supernatural" crossover

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. Title from Tennyson.

**Warnings**: AU for SN before pilot; slight AU for TIH

**Pairings**: canon

**Wordcount**: 1830

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

It happened the winter Dean turned sixteen. He and Dad were hunting a werewolf; Sam stayed back the room, three towns over. Dean made the kill-shot and they burned the corpse. Dean was riding high, thrilled and excited, and Dad was distracted enough to drive off the snow-covered road into an ancient oak.

Dean woke up a few days later, but he was no longer Dean.

He'd been found, he was told, in a car. An older man had been in the driver's seat, dead. There'd been half a dozen IDs, but none with his face or name. He remembered how to walk and talk and flirt, but nothing of his past remained.

He spent a month in the hospital, called _kid_, _sweetie_, and _honey_, but no family ever claimed him. Once he was all healed up, they had to release him, and the system took him in.

The first time a foster-brother picked on him, he broke the boy's arm and realized he was dangerous. He went to school under the name Michael Smith, which he'd pulled out of hat; he knew math and the basic sciences, but English and history held no interest and he didn't bother to relearn what he'd forgotten. But when he discovered music, he fell in love. All music, any music, from hard rock all the way down to classical. He listened to it all.

By senior year, he'd aced the math and science classes while floundering in all the rest, and had pierced everything pierceable. He had two tattoos and bloody nightmares about guns.

He never felt like a Michael. He answered to it but never internalized it, and after graduation, he left Connecticut and headed for California. He shed the skin of Michael, trying out identities on the way to the Pacific. In every town, every time he got picked up by the side of the road, he became someone new. Finally, in Santa Cruz, smelling salt air, he settled on Priestly, a rebel with his own voice, no past, and an opinion on everything.

He thought he might be twenty-two when he got there, but couldn't be sure. He experimented with hair colors and styles, and listened to a new CD every day. He'd tried a dozen jobs on his way across the country and discovered an affinity for cars.

After a few months in Santa Cruz he found two sources of employment: the Beach City Grill and a garage just down the street from it. To celebrate lasting employment, half a year in, he had a long design tattooed down his neck.

Priestly still had bloody nightmares about guns. He sometimes felt like he was casing places, picking out the threats, deciding how to put them down with minimal fuss. To stay sharp—there must've been some reason he knew how to fight—he visited a martial arts studio weekly.

Twelve years after waking up, he had Trucker and Tish and Jen, and then Zo and Piper, and it was enough. It had to be enough. But Tish fucked anything that moved, except him, so he decided to try one last thing. He removed the piercings, shaved the sideburns, and washed out the dye in his hair. He stared at himself in the mirror—a stranger looked back, a man with no past and no name.

He walked into the Beach City Grill as someone he couldn't remember ever being and Tish's mouth dropped open. "_Holy shit_," she said.

He fumbled his lines, asking her out, and she demanded only one thing: his real name.

Priestly dropped his eyes. "I don't know," he said. "I woke up in a Connecticut hospital twelve years ago with no memory of who I'd been."

She studied him for a moment, face softening. "Tish is short for Platicia," she confessed and then told him to pick her up at seven.

They spent almost a year as a couple before deciding they'd be better as friends. Priestly kept the ear and nose studs but grew his hair out some. He worked insane hours at the garage, but stayed at the Grill two days a week.

His bloody dreams got bloodier and sometimes he heard a man scream _Dean!_

Priestly had never fired a gun. He didn't like them. But after a particularly nasty dream—fire, smoke, blood, and pain—he went to a shooting range, borrowed a gun, and shot a target between the eyes, through the heart, and in the crotch. He lowered the gun in shock. Who had he been before that car accident? The car was full of weapons; he remembered being asked about them. But he had no identity. He had a dead stranger and IDs with half a dozen names, none of which had his face.

He had been dangerous. He was still dangerous, and he gently set the gun down to stare at his hands.

He could have killed Tad that night. He'd wanted to, and that desire had kept him on the ground. If Trucker hadn't come out, Priestly honestly didn't know what he would've done, and he stared at his hands in horrified wonder. He felt the fury welling, that night on the ground. He felt the violence in him waiting to be uncoiled.

Priestly left the range and went to his apartment where he took a long shower. He scoured his skin till he bled, but that night he had a nightmare anyway.

Priestly was late to the Grill the next morning. He didn't bother putting in any of his studs or any make-up on, and he wore old, ratty clothes.

"Somethin' wrong?" Trucker asked.

Priestly shook his head. "Just bad dreams," he said. "Nothing new."

He worked with only half his mind, most of him trying to piece together the clues into something resembling an answer. So he could fire a gun pretty good. He could kick some ass. He still had no name, and no family to claim.

"Priestly," Jen said and he turned away from the grill to focus on her. "Piper called in sick, Trucker went for a walk with Zo, and Tish is on break. Could you take the counter while I run to the bathroom?"

"Sure, Jen," he replied. "No problemo."

She smiled at him and headed for the back. It was the middle of the morning, so there wasn't any crowd. He drummed on the counter, straining his memory for anything before Connecticut. But there was nothing, just a blank, a dark chasm that had only bloody nightmares about guns and sometimes a man screaming _Dean_.

_Was I Dean?_ Priestly wondered. _Is that my name?_

A bolt of pain shot through his Priestly's head so he shifted his thoughts to a car at the garage.

"Okay, Sam," a tall blonde said into her cell, coming into the shop. "I gotta go order, so get your ass over here." She nodded. "Love you too, babe. Hurry up!" She flipped her cellphone shut and slipped it into her pocket, stepping up to the counter and smiling at Priestly.

"What can I get you?" he asked, pen and pad ready.

She glanced at the menu. "A ten-inch club and a six-inch three-meat , please," she said.

He jotted that down. "Any drinks, salads, or sides?"

She thought for a second. "Lemonade, Coke, potato chips, a chocolate chip cookie, and a cupcake."

He nodded. "Okay, miss, that'll be fifteen thirty-seven." He glanced up. "Cash or credit?"

She handed over a twenty and leaned in conspiratorially. "My boyfriend'll be here in a few minutes and it's his birthday. Is there any way I could get a candle for the cupcake?"

Priestly grinned. "Hell yeah, girl," he said. "Give me a second—I know we have candles in the back."

She smiled. "Thank you," she said.

He passed her the cups and opened the register, but she told him, "Keep the change," and went to the drink dispenser.

Headed for the back, he ran into Jen. "Hey, do we have candles?" he asked.

She looked around the messy room. "Somewhere, I think. Why?"

"I promised a customer we could put a candle on her boyfriend's cupcake," he explained.

Jen bit her lip and thought for a moment. "Well, I have no idea where they are. I'll go buy some. You stay here."

Priestly returned to the front to see Tish back and a giant sitting across from the tall blonde, holding her hand. They were smiling and laughing, and the giant ducked his head, blushing.

"Freakishly adorable, right?" Tish asked.

Priestly nodded, chuckling, and pressed a fond kiss to the top of her head before quickly making the lovebirds' sandwiches and loading up the tray. They already had the cookie and chips, so Priestly waited for the candle.

Jen rushed in with a pack of green candles. "It was all they had," she said. "Will it work?"

Priestly nodded. He opened the pack and stuck one of the candles into the cupcake, lighting it.

"Should we sing?" Jen asked.

Priestly shook his head. "I'll take the tray out to 'em."

The giant looked up in shock when Priestly stopped at the table and said, "Delivery for Sasquatch."

"Jess!" he hissed. "I told you not to celebrate!"

The tall blonde, Jess, said, "You tell me that every year, Sam. I never listen." She took the sandwiches off the tray while Priestly set the cupcake in front of Sam. Jess continued, "Blow out the candle and make a wish."

Sam met Priestly's eyes. "Thanks," he said sincerely. "You didn't have to do this."

Priestly grinned. "It was nothing. So, how old is the birthday boy?"

"Twenty-four," Jess answered. "And he'll be a kick-ass lawyer soon."

Sam ducked his head. "She's exaggerating."

Patting the kid's shoulder, Priestly said, "Blow out the candle and make a wish, Sam." He backed away, leaving the two lovebirds to their early lunch. He watched them till they left, Sam throwing a grin over his shoulder and Jess waving.

Something about the kid was familiar, but Priestly shook it off and cleaned the grill before clocking out to head to the garage.

That night, he dreamed about teaching a little boy to shoot a gun. _Always aim like you mean to kill, _he said. _Otherwise, it's a bullet wasted. Got it, Sammy?_

The little boy replied, _Got it, Dean_.

Priestly took some of his vacation time the next day and went for a long walk on the beach. He had a choice—wonder about who he'd been forever or move forward, fully embrace Priestly.

As the sun set across the water, he made up his mind. Whoever he'd been, that boy died in a car wrapped around an oak tree during a Connecticut winter. No one claimed him. He knew some dangerous shit, and cars.

But Priestly liked music and old movies and shirts that said stuff. And if Priestly sometimes dreamed about that dead kid's life(Dean's?), no one ever had to know.


	25. Spongebob Squarepants

**Title**: who lives in a pineapple under the sea?

**Fandom**: "Supernatural"/"Spongebob" crossover

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun.

**Warnings**: crack?

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 105

**Point of view**: third

* * *

"Dude," Dean whispers, eyes darting back to the corner. "How the hell do we kill a giant sponge?"

"I don't know," Sam mutters. "Fire?"

"Well, we better think of something fast," Dean says, hands itching for his gun, but it's next to the—thing, and the thing is _eying_ it, and Dean growls when the giant fucking sponge—in brown pants, for fuck's sake—picks up his gun. "What's this?" the thing asks in it's squeaky voice.

Dean lunges for the giant sponge, blinded to all but its _hands_ on his _gun_.

"Dean!" Sam yelps.

Turns out, sponges don't bleed. But they do fucking _die_.


	26. Dark Angel 4

**Title**: the good soldier

**Fandom**: "Supernatural"/"Dark Angel" crossover

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: AU for "Pollo Loco"; future!fic for "Supernatural"

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 580

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Dedication**: _pixel_0_ for her birthday

**Prompt**: _Anything dark and creepy is most welcomed. Maybe something a'la Poe? Or just, like serial killer boys a'la Ben from Dark Angel? So, dark!Winchesters or Ben being Ben or dark!Alec?_ I went with Ben being Ben, and a dash of Winchesters with their demons.

* * *

_Hello, Ben, my beloved son_, the Blue Lady said, helping to his feet_. You have done well._

_My Lady, _he said, lifting a hand to his neck. He looked around, at the mist, unable to see past it. _What—am I dead?_

_Only if you want to be._ She cupped his cheek in her soft, warm hand, eyes the color of clouds. _I can send you back, Ben. You will have a duty, something you alone can fulfill. Or you can rest._ She smiled up at him, her blue cloak and dark hair gently dancing in the breeze.

_Let me serve you_, he said.

The Blue Lady pulled his head down and pressed her lips to each eyelid. _I bless you, Ben, my special boy. You will hunt non-believers and convert or kill them. Their hearts will strengthen me, Ben. I need more than their teeth now._

_Yes, my Lady. _He dropped his knees, bowing low.

_We're at war_, she told him, hand on the crown of his head. _You are the best of my soldiers. The others have begun doubting me._

He blinked up at her_. But—you are the Lady!_

_I know. _She sounded sad. _I don't understand, Ben. Their faith wasn't strong enough._

He clung to her hand. _I will hunt them,_ he promised. _They will learn_.

She smiled_. My good boy_, she murmured. _The best of all._

o0o

Soldiers were around him when he opened his eyes in the woods. Lydecker's fingers were on his neck.

His Lady's voice echoed, his duty, his mission. He felt strong, his broken knee healed, his mind at peace.

_Hunt for me_, the Lady whispered. _I need hearts_.

Lydecker fell back and the soldiers raised their guns, but he had never been faster. He killed them all in a blink and then ripped open their ribcages to give his Lady their hearts.

_You'll know the traitors by their scent, Ben_, the Blue Lady told him. _They stink of sulfur. Track them and call my name. When the time comes, I'll show you what to do._

He left the bodies for the scavengers, but the dozen hearts he ate. His body was the Lady's temple and what strengthened him would strengthen her.

Ben hurried deeper into the woods. He needed to find somewhere to clean up; being covered in blood would only get him in trouble with human authorities, and while they were no longer the threat they'd been, they'd slow down his mission.

He followed the clean scent of water to a lake, far from Seattle and half a mile from the road. He stripped and dove in, relishing the cool liquid on his skin. The Lady was a distant presence now, but he remembered her hand on his face, her voice.

Whoever had betrayed her, those weak soldiers without faith—he would hunt them and make them pay before taking their hearts.

After he'd scrubbed the blood off him and washed his clothes the best he could, Ben stretched out on the ground and tried to rest. In his dream, the Lady fought a man with sun-yellow eyes, a man larger than anyone Ben had ever seen. The man called her Lilith and cursed her and swore to kill her for something she'd done to someone named Dean.

When Ben woke, the Lady was completely gone. He knew she needed hearts to make her strong enough to defeat the yellow-eyed man, so with the sun barely up, Ben got dressed and started hunting.


	27. Dark Angel 5

**Title**: inheritance

**Fandom**: "Supernatural"/"Dark Angel" crossover

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun.

**Warnings**: future!fic for both shows

**Pairings**: none stated

**Rating**: PGish

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Wordcount**: 830

**Notes**: for ratherbe4gotten, to her prompt of _Alec meets Sam or SamnDean_

* * *

He blinks and it's ten years after the apocalypse. He's not in Miami anymore; the Space Needle is in the distance. Dean's nowhere in sight. Dean's nowhere in sight or hearing and there's a gaping hole in Sam's mind.

He blinks, the Space Needle looming a few miles away. He blinks, knowing something has gone horribly wrong.

He blinks and knows Dean is gone.

o0o

First things first, he researches the hell out of history. Ten years blank, a body older and harder than he remembers, powers he sure as hell hadn't honed all primed and ready—what's happened?

Some shit called the Pulse took America out of the running in world power. Something called transgenics being hunted down as mistakes and freaks and dangerous, but as far as Sam can see, humans have done worse to each other for less than survival.

No mention of Winchesters in any database he can find, but since the Pulse wiped out most records, that might not mean anything.

He still has no idea how he got here, where the last ten years have gone. He remembers Miami in summer of 2009, Dean by his side as they dealt with another coven of witches, three men and two women who'd been casting curses on anyone they didn't like.

Witches. Curses. _Shit_. He's been cast into the future, and with his luck, all the witches are dead. Since he's here, Dean must have flipped out and killed them all.

No way home. After everything, Heaven and Hell, Michael's sword and Lucifer's vessel—he clenches his fist, feeling the power to the depths of his soul, pulsing beneath his skin, pooling in his blood. So much power. More than he could have fathomed in Miami of 2009, more than he had when he killed Lilith while flush with her favored's blood.

But not enough to get back to Dean.

o0o

Sam is drunk when the doppelganger walks in, looking exactly like Dean had the year Sam left for Stanford. Sam stares at him, mouth open and eyes wide, fingers tight around his glass. It can't be Dean. He stretches out a tendril of power, seeking recognition, and it's not Dean.

But the kid flinches just the same, recoiling back from Sam's psychic touch, gaze flicking around the room to settle on him.

Just like Dean could do, in those last months before Miami.

o0o

The kid doesn't approach. He just sits at the table with the others he came in with, eyes constantly returning to Sam. Sam never looks away. He gently pushes his way past the kid's defenses, so subtly even Dean wouldn't have felt it. He learns everything there is to know about Alec in less than five seconds, seeping into his memories and his blood.

It's an invasion of privacy so complete there would no forgiveness if Dean's mirror ever learned of it. Sam's fine with that, because he has to know.

o0o

When Sam leaves, the kid follows within minutes. Sam's seething, his power lashing around him in small waves. The ground trembles so faintly, only those who know about it can sense it, and Sam's the only one in the whole world.

Manticore. He's aching to sink his teeth in and shake, rip the entire operation to its innards and spill the guts for all the world to see.

Knowing about transgenics from the news is one thing. Seeing it from the mind of one of their special projects is another entirely.

Alec slinks up to him like the panther in his genetic code, hesitant like a feral cat in the presence of a greater predator, and Sam's the best there's ever been. Alec doesn't look at him straight on, now that they're away from the crowd. Alone in the back-alley, lit up by flickering streetlights and a shadowed moon, Alec only glances at him in swift bursts, from the corner of his eye.

Sam waits for the boy to speak first, the boy who is his one connection to Dean left in this world.

Alec's been dreaming, Sam knows. Dreaming about yellow eyes and fire, about angels and demons and an apocalypse averted by the scantest of margins, about blood and salt and iron.

Alec's been dreaming about Dean's life. Sam wonders what Ben had dreamed about, before being put down. If that Ben were Lisa's kid or not. Where Ben Braedon might be now, whether he's Dean's son.

"Who are you?" Alec asks, finally pausing in his pacing. "Why—"

Sam's had a starring role in Alec's dreams for near-on a month, now. He blinks back tears, looking into Alec's huge hazel eyes. Dean's eyes. Dean's back in the past—somewhere in the last decade, he's died. Sam can feel it, the hole left gaping open in the world with no Dean Winchester to fill it.

"I'm Sam," he says. "And you're the closest thing I have to a brother."

The kid blinks, but Sam can sense Dean in his blood and that's enough.


	28. Chronicles of Narnia

**Title**: once a king

**Fandom**: "Supernatural"/_Chronicles of Narnia_

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: takes place after season four, but no spoilers for anything; I have no idea when during Narnia's history this might be

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 100

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Dedication**: for irnan, for her birthday, to the prompt of _Dean goes to Narnia_

* * *

It's not that he doesn't miss the impala(because he does, _so damn much_) or that he doesn't miss Bobby and Ellen and everyone he's ever _met_, even the ones he didn't like. It's not that he's _happy_ being hailed as a Son of Adam, with subservient _squirrels,_ or what the fuck ever, asking if there's anything they can do for his highness, please, _anything at all_.

It's not how cool he thinks talking animals are, or the thrill he gets from watching damned _trees_ dance.

It is how Sammy hasn't stopped smiling since Aslan spoke his name.

_Samuel, welcome home. _


	29. Terminator: Salvation

**Title**: You are somebody's fault

**Fandom**: "Supernatural"/_Terminator: Salvation_

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from Anne Sexton.

**Warnings**: spoilers for season four and movie

**Pairings**: none stated

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 585

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

Turns out, the demonic powers of Hell work on machines.

Who knew.

--

They stay ahead of the machines because Sam utterly destroys any that get close.

After Azazel and Ruby, Lilith and Lucifer, chunks of metal and electricity are nothing.

--

In the early days, just after the first attacks, Dean kept expecting to wake up.

He never did.

--

They saved the world from Satan himself, from the Prince of Darkness and his army, but they were unable to stop humanity from damning themselves with their own arrogance.

Until the first bomb fell, Dean and Sam didn't even know the danger existed.

--

Dean finds the kid five years after. He's desperate and starving, staggering through LA carrying a little girl. The minute he sees Dean, he freezes, turning in place to shield the girl as best he can.

"Hey," Dean says, holding his hands out, calling to Sam. "Hey, kid. It's okay."

--

His name is Kyle Reese; her name is Star. They're wild and wary, shying away from Dean and Sam's touch. Star never talks, but Kyle answers direct questions and follows orders, so long as he stays within sight of Star.

They're the first humans Dean and Sam have come across in months, and they're just kids.

--

Kyle and Star stay with them for a few months, until they're all separated in an attack. Dean and Sam meet up afterwards because they can always find each other now, but the kids are somewhere on the other side of the city.

"They'll be fine, Dean," Sam assures him, one hand wrapped around his forearm, holding him in place. "They're survivors."

--

They listen to John Connor's broadcasts just to know there are others out there. "We could join up with him, and the Resistance," Dean suggests one day, picking through the rubble of a house, salvaging what he can. "I bet they could use our help."

Sam stares at the horizon, eyes distant. Dean can't imagine what he sees, what he's thinking. "No," Sam says. "We won't."

--

They wander, same as they always have. Dean misses the purpose he felt, those last few years before Hell. He even misses the mission he had in that year just after. He has no point, in this new world of machines. Sam doesn't need him. Sam hasn't needed him in a long time.

He watches Sam obliterate one of the flying kind, over a hundred meters away with his mind. Why is he even here? What use can he possibly be to Hell's chosen king, Lucifer's vessel? Sam _destroyed_ Lucifer—Dean is just a frail, fragile human. He's nothing.

--

"Dean," Sam says one day. "Dean, if you could go back in time and change something, what would it be?" He's staring at the horizon again, gaze towards the west. They're in the husk of a city, all its bones laid bare. Buzzards circle in the sky; Dean can hear small animals scurrying in the ruins. The survivors.

He thinks, watching Sam. What would he fix, given the chance? He's already tried that and failed spectacularly. "Nothing," he answers. He hasn't seen or heard a demon since the bombs, after all. No vampires or werewolves or spirits. Nothing supernatural. Just the machines.

--

Days and weeks and months and years, different variations of the same machines, sunrises and sunsets, walking through a dying land. Dean's tired, but Sam just keeps going. He recharges in the moonlight, wakes bright and eager every day, grins at Dean and says, "Another chance."

Dean can only follow him.


	30. Leverage 2

**Title**: untitled

**Fandom**: "Leverage"/"Supernatural"

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: takes place pre-pilot for both

**Pairings**: none stated

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 105

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Dedication**: For redfirecracker to the prompt _Anything SPN, Dean-centric, or Leverage, Eliot would be terrific._

* * *

They met in Alabama after Eliot won a fight against a whole bar and Dean had five hundred dollars from cheating at pool in his pocket.

Eliot was hitching to anywhere but here and Dean was hightailing it out of town, and Dad had always told him to be careful of strangers, but the universe was finally seeing Dean's way(Sammy's gone, but not lost, he's safe in California, he's happy at college, and Dad'll call soon, he's fine, just not here) so he decided to stop and find out where Eliot was going.

They met in Alabama, and found someone not too different from themselves.


	31. Gimore Girls 2

**Title**: smalltown feeling

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: none

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 30

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: Sam and Dean, Stars Hollow

* * *

Dean, of course, loves the place. Because of the pie, but still.

Sam keeps glancing around, sure that everyone is staring at him, and he has _no idea why_.


	32. Leverage 3

**Title**: fathers and sons

**Fandom**: Supernatural/Leverage

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: pre-series for both

**Pairings**: implied OMC/Eliot

**Rating**: PGish

**Wordcount**: 930

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: John, wee!Sam, wee!Dean, wee!Eliot, John comes across a young Eliot Spencer

* * *

They've just crossed the state line into Oregon and John's bone-deep exhausted. Sammy finally drifted off to sleep only half an hour ago and Dean's curled up next to him in the backseat, yawning so wide John's jaw hurts at the thought.

"Go to sleep, son," John tells him, yawning himself. "I'll wake you when we stop."

Dean shakes his head, determined to keep John company. He told John so way back in Reno, when they stopped to stock up on supplies. He's a big boy now, so he can stay up with John.

John shakes his head and sighs, focusing back on the road. Dean'll be asleep in ten minutes, tops, and if John's remembering right, there's a hotel about twenty miles on. He's getting so tired it's dangerous and they can head out again in the morning.

Well. He drains his can of soda and amends that to the afternoon.

o0o

Ten hours of interrupted sleep is a luxury of the past, but John wakes well into the afternoon.

"Dean?" he calls, instantly on alert. He sits up, scanning the room. Neither of the boys is accounted for and panic starts dully thumping in his gut.

It's only after he stands that he sees the note on the dresser: _gone swimin_ in Dean's just-learned scrawl.

Relief intermingles with anger that Dean left the room, taking Sammy with him, and didn't bother waking John to tell him.

Of course, Dean's a big boy now. He likes to take care of Sammy and John, nevermind that he's all of seven and still needs to be taken care of himself.

o0o

They are both at the pool, Sammy splashing on the stairs and Dean within reach of him, trying to see how long he can hold his breath.

"Dean!" John calls; they both look up. "It's time to go." Not only do they both lack swimming trunks—Dean's in one of John's shirts and his underwear, Sammy in Dean's shirt—but they're already running late.

"Yes'r," Dean says. He herds Sammy out of the pool. John picks Sammy up and heads back to the room, Dean at his side.

o0o

They get lunch in town, even though it's really more of a supper, the day's run so late. "Maybe we should stay the night again," he muses aloud, while Dean's finishing up his burger. Sammy's already made a mess of his mashed potatoes. "We'd just have to stop two towns over, anyway."

Dean blinks up at him. John nods. "Yeah, we'll get another room for the night," he says.

o0o

John actually gets up at a reasonable hour the next morning and straightens the room before rousing the boys. He settles Sammy into his seat with his favorite stuffed rabbit and makes sure Dean buckles up.

"We good to go, boys?" he asks.

Dean nods. Sammy makes his rabbit roar and laughs.

o0o

John first notices the kid outside a truckstop just north of Madras. He's about twelve, in clothes that are too big, with a split lip and two shiners. Then John's attention is caught by Sammy's temper-tantrum and the kid is forgotten.

But John sees him again at the Washington welcome center, slouching against the wall by the men's room, looking too old and infinitely young at the same time. John bundles his boys into the car, tells Dean to lock the doors, and heads back.

When he gets there, he sees the kid slipping into a truck with a roughneck. John glances around, but no one's watching, so he stalks to the driver's door and pulls the man out.

o0o

Dean is silent in the back with Sammy; the kid, who refuses to tell John his name, is steaming shotgun.

"I didn't ask for your help," is the only thing he's said so far that wasn't a muttered curse.

"Where you goin'?" John asks placidly.

The kid glares at him. "Olympia."

"Family?" John asks, refusing to get riled up.

"I got an aunt there. She'll—" The kid cuts off, turning his back to John so he can glare out the window.

"You know," John says, switching lanes to pass on Oldsmobile. "Kid, if you're gonna be on your own, you should learn how to fight."

He glances into the rearview, at Mary's boys. The thought of Dean out on his own, trying to do what this kid was—it makes his blood boil.

"Yeah," the kid mutters.

The ride is silent after that.

o0o

John leaves the boys in the car when he walks the kid to his aunt's door. The kid just huddles in his jacket, so John knocks.

An older woman answers and her mouth drops open. "Eliot Spencer!" she howls. "Your mother's been frantic lookin' for you, boy!"

The kid, Eliot, scoffs. "Pissed off I left is more like it," he says.

That just sends the woman into an even greater diatribe and John taps Eliot on the shoulder. "Be good, you hear?" he says. "And learn to fight."

Eliot nods. As John turns to go, he says, "Hey, uh, sir?" John looks back. Eliot ducks his head and murmurs, "Thanks. For, you know…"

John nods, now, and says, "Remember, Eliot. If you're gonna be takin' care of yourself, you need to know how to defend—and attack."

The woman pulls Eliot into the house, never even sparing John a glance, and he heads back to his car. He twists in his seat to look at the boys; Sammy's asleep, but Dean is watching him.

"Hey, Dean," he asks, "You ready to learn how to shoot a gun?"


	33. The Crow 2

**Title**: a murder

**Fandom**: "Supernatural"/The Crow

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: AU

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 165

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: SPN, Author's choice, The Crow

* * *

Dean didn't realize it, but he raised himself from the dead a mere day before the angels would have laid siege to Hell for his soul.

As he breathed his first breath in a year, shaking dirt off his shirt and hair, he glanced around. Trees were down for miles, and the only other living thing was a crow, staring at him, sitting pretty on a handmade cross.

For one long, glorious moment he didn't remember. Then he did—_Lilith and Sammy, Cold Oak, HellAlistairHellHellHell—Sammy_

_Calm_, a deep, clear voice said in his mind. _Dean Winchester, calm yourself. We have work to do. _

The crow took wing and circled him. _Follow me_, the voice said_. I can take you to food and water, and then your brother. _

_Sammy_, Dean thought

_Yes_, the crow said. _He needs our help, Dean. He's waging a losing war_.

Dean took a step. Then another. The aches and pains were vanishing quickly; he'd never felt so strong.

He followed the crow.


	34. Hide

**Title**: the doom mark crawls down the wall

**Fandom**: "Supernatural"/_Hide_

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from Sylvia Plath

**Warnings**: spoilers for season 4 and end of movie

**Pairings**: um—a smidge of Dean/Billy

**Rating**: R

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Wordcount**: 415

* * *

"Well now, Billy Bear, what's it gonna be today? I'm thinkin' the meat-hook—that's my preference. But Hell's all about you."

Billy looked up from his burning entrails to meet the eyes of his chief tormenter. "Don't you have anythin' better to do?" he gasped, throat bleeding.

"Nope," he drawled. "I'm here for you 'til you break, Billy Bear." He smirked, licking his lips. "You were a nasty piece of work Above, sweetheart," he murmured, leaning in close and mouthing at Billy's neck. "You were a terror, killed and hurt whole bushels of people. I'm just here to make you feel how they felt."

Billy screamed as fire traveled up his veins, to every nerve ending. "What'll it be?" his torturer asked. "Meat-hook or flaying?"

"Fuck you," Billy snarled through the pain. "Get your jollies somewhere else, you fucker."

The fire vanished, leaving Billy gasping. Dread built up in him as the bastard knelt before him, grinning. "Well now, Billy. That _is_ a good idea."

Billy shuddered, momentary courage gone, and whispered, "Please. Go away."

"No, sweetheart," he responded, standing and gently patting Billy's cheek. "See, I'm here for you. Until you break, all my attention is on _you_, day in and day out." He gently kissed Billy's lips, and Billy tasted blood and ash and fire.

Only the chains around Billy's wrists kept him upright as he sagged down. "Give me the vision," he pled.

"Alright, Billy Bear," Alistair's pupil agreed. "But remember—you make your own torment. What you see is all on you."

Billy glanced up at him—he would've been pretty without the blood coating his skin, and those glinting hazel eyes seared right through Billy. "I understand," he said.

"One day you'll break," the tormenter promised, resting his calloused palm on Billy's cheek. "We all do. You'll say yes and take my razor and start hurtin' people again." Billy closed his eyes and waited, and the words continued on, soft and dark and absolute. "You'll learn my name that day and we'll have fun the likes of which you've never seen."

"Please," Billy muttered. "Give me the dream."

A featherlight touch to his forehead and he opened his eyes in the back of the van, on his way to trial. Seven years in prison, seven years without the love of his life, seven years that taught him regret.

_Have fun_, Alistair's apprentice whispered in the back of his mind. _You'll get to do this forever when you finally tell me yes. _


	35. Paradise Lost

**Title**: by experience taught we know how good

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from _Paradise Lost_

**Warnings**: spoilers for aired season 5; knowledge of _Paradise Lost_ is helpful, but not necessary

**Pairings**: none stated

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**:

**Point of view**: third

**Prompt**: Alastair[/author's choice], author's choice

* * *

He does not remember the name he had in Heaven. He does not recall how bright he shone, how much he loved their father, how he stood before Sammael and so righteously declared their father's magnificence.

He does not remember the later years after Sammael became Satan, after Michael led the first humans from the Garden, after Lilith appeared and caught Satan's eye.

He does not remember when he grew weary of Heaven's perfection, of the singing and the praising and _everything_.

He does not remember the first time he doubted or how he took those doubts to Michael and asked for explanations, for reassurance. He does not remember Michael's sadness. He does not remember the second doubt, or the third, or the one that finally expelled him from Heaven, when he dared to ask if maybe Sammael had the right of it, when he began that war.

He does not remember the early days in Hell, when his wings blackened and fell off, when he looked at the souls trudging around wailing and thought _someone should give them something to bemoan. _

But he remembers when he first picked up the razor and fashioned a rack of fire and bone and chose the first soul to stretch upon it.

He remembers when Satan approached him on the edge of the burning lake, as he slit open a soul and scooped the innards out. He remembers when Satan asked, "What's your name, brother?"

He remembers when he considered and chose, "Alistair."

(In Heaven, Michael weeps the first angelic tears and murmurs, "Abdiel.")


	36. Leverage 4

**Title**: seek and ye shall find

**Fandom**: Leverage/Supernatural

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; one line paraphrased from Milton

**Warnings**: spoilers for Supernatural season 5; AU

**Pairings**: a smidge of Michael/Lucifer, implied Dean/Castiel

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 1710

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

They send Azrael to fetch him because he will not listen to anyone else.

"Brother," Azrael says. "It is time to come home. Your vessel is ready to be claimed."

The being that calls himself Eliot Spencer turns to the Angel of Death and replies, "I'm busy; already got some plans. Come back later."

That is the first attempt, but nowhere near the last.

o0o

Zachariah is swiftly losing patience and demands Raphael's help.

"The tactics that work on our lesser brothers will not work on the greatest of us," Raphael intones, like Zachariah didn't already know that. "Leave me be," Raphael adds, closing his eyes to return to his meditation.

Zachariah finds Gabriel on the far side of the sky and asks, "Can't you go talk to him? We need him for our victory!"

Gabriel smiles gently. "Our elder brother has made his decision. Only Father could change his mind."

"But God is not here!" Zachariah thunders. "He's abandoned us."

His smile sad now, Gabriel looks back towards the Earth. "Our brother has found peace. I'll not disturb him."

Biting his tongue, Zachariah leaves him and goes to Azrael again.

o0o

"Brother," Azrael whispers. "We need you to win. Please come home."

Eliot Spencer brushes hair off his face and spits blood onto the floor. "That all you got?" he taunts the five humans before him.

They charge; he smirks, wading in to break bones.

o0o

Eight more times Azrael tries and is rebuffed. Finally, he refuses Zachariah's increasingly hostile demands.

"Leave me be," he tells Zachariah, settling next to Gabriel. "Our brother has chosen his path and will not be swayed."

Zachariah grits his teeth and tries to think of another way.

o0o

"Call Castiel," Zachariah commands, appearing in Dean's monster of a car.

The car swerves as Dean shouts, "Whoa! How the fuck did you find us?"

Zachariah glares from the backseat, angered that he has been reduced to this—seeking aid from the perpetually infuriating Winchester brothers.

"Call Castiel," he repeats, not wanting to admit he actually had to watch human traffic cameras to locate them.

"Why?" Sam inquires, twisting to glance back, and Zachariah really doesn't want to talk to Lucifer's vessel but alienating either of them is unwise at this point.

"Heaven requires he visit someone," Zachariah claims.

"Heaven," Dean scoffs. "Meanin' you, right, Zach?"

"You can't find him yourself?" Sam smirks at him, not at all the once awe-filled man who excitedly offered his hand to Castiel.

"No," Zachariah mutters.

"Too damn bad," Dean says. "Get the fuck out of my car."

"If you don't summon Castiel," Zachariah tells him, "I'll follow you and snatch him the next time he appears. You will truly never see him again."

The Winchesters share a glance, and for all his power, Zachariah cannot glean what passes between them.

"Okay," Dean says. "But under our rules."

"Fine," Zachariah agrees shortly and the rest of the ride is silent.

o0o

Zachariah is told to sit down and shut up while Dean makes the call. He uses a cellphone and Zachariah raises a brow, but keeps quiet off Dean's look.

"Hey," Dean says into the phone. "We got your old boss here and he wants to talk with you." Dean nods. "Yeah, Indiana, where we agreed. Okay."

Castiel appears in the room, glaring at Zachariah. They haven't spoken since Castiel told him to leave, since Castiel chose Dean Winchester over his siblings, since _something_ returned Castiel to life without Zachariah's permission.

"Why are you here?" Castiel demands; his absence from Heaven has not diminished him. If anything, he seems more powerful, far more emotional, and somewhat angry.

"Heaven requires your aid, Castiel," Zachariah says regally. "My greatest brother has lost his way and must be convinced to return."

Castiel stares at him. "Michael is not in Heaven?" he whispers. "He is not party to your plan?" His gaze goes to Dean, then back to Zachariah. "You want me to convince him to follow you?"

Zachariah says, "Your paltry rebellion will be overlooked, should you succeed."

An expression unrecognizable to Zachariah covers Castiel's vessel's face for a moment. "Tell me where he is," Castiel murmurs, face and voice solemn again. "I shall speak with the greatest of us."

o0o

"Brother," Castiel says quietly, glancing around the tidy kitchen. "You have ignored Azrael's pleas. Gabriel and Raphael sit unmoving in Heaven. Lucifer walks the world again. Will you do nothing?"

Eliot turns, nods toward a bowl of chopped vegetables. "Hand me that," he orders, "and we'll talk."

o0o

"So, you're that one's lackey now," Eliot comments, passing over the bread-plate. "Never thought I'd see the day."

Castiel smiles at him. "I am not here for Zachariah. I don't want you to take Dean Winchester, but that is not the only way open to you."

Eliot smirks, stabbing a carrot with his fork. "You've discovered the good parts of humanity, then. They're fascinatin', ain't they?"

Nodding, Castiel selects a roll. "How long have you been here?"

"Thirty-five years." Eliot shovels a forkful of steak in his mouth, chews, and swallows before saying, "I didn't Fall. I got curious, so I formed a body and chose a place. A nice couple took me in, raised me as their own." He stares at his glass of water. "I never forgot who I am," he admits quietly. "I consciously chose to shove all my eons deep inside me, to live and grow as a man. But I never forgot and I never Fell."

Castiel continues calmly eating, allowing Eliot the time to gather his thoughts.

"I have only ever been a weapon," Eliot murmurs. "God's Sword, his thundering fist. Even in this form, I am a weapon, unstoppable and fierce."

They eat silently and gather the dishes, clear the table, go to the den. Eliot nods to Castiel for him to choose a seat.

Finally, Castiel asks, "Do you know where Yahweh has gone?"

Eliot's smile is kind. "Yes," he says. "And if you don't know, then I can't tell you, kid."

"So he's not dead?" Castiel latches onto the present tense of Eliot's words. "Raphael told me he's dead."

Eliot rolls his eyes. "Raphael always was a pissy bastard." He stretches. "If God had died, don't you think Azrael might've noticed?"

Castiel nods, considering. "Yes, of course."

Again, quiet falls. Eliot studies him for a moment, and Castiel waits. "I don't sense the soul of that vessel, brother."

"No." Castiel shake his head. "Raphael destroyed me, and Jimmy Novak with me. I am alone in here now."

"I can make that form yours, then, if you feel attached to it," Eliot offers. "Like this body is mine."

"You returned Anachel's human body," Castiel realizes and Eliot smiles. Castiel nods—he has wondered, watching the Winchesters, what truly having a physical body on Earth would be like.

"C'mere," Eliot commands. They meet in the middle of the room and Eliot places both his hands on Castiel, one palm to his forehead and the other beneath his shirt, over where his heart would beat, were the body still alive. "Breathe with me," Eliot murmurs. "Restart your system—breathe with me."

Slowly, Castiel feels himself anchoring inside the human machine, the veins and muscle and skin. He has physical sensation unhindered by not belonging.

"Welcome to actually bein' alive," Eliot says.

Castiel breathes.

o0o

When Michael returns to Heaven, Zachariah meets him.

"Brother!" Zachariah exclaims. "Finally."

Michael is as glorious as the day he left, the greatest of them all, and he stares at Zachariah with dangerous eyes. "I am not here to stay," he says, the words reverberating. "I have come to tell you that I will not wear Dean Winchester as a vessel to fight Satan."

Zachariah's mouth drops open and he splutters, "_What_?"

Michael looks past him, to the magnificence of Heaven, and he sneers. "The Dinarics are prettier," he mutters, focusing back on Zachariah. "Should I involve myself in this mess of your making," he proclaims, words traveling to every angel, fallen and not, "it will not be for you."

Michael looks Zachariah right in the eyes. "Stop threatening Castiel's humans," he commands. "And leave him alone."

Thunder rumbles across Heaven and Michael is gone. Zachariah feels his grand plan dribbling through his fingers and cannot comprehend what's gone wrong.

o0o

Standing on a mountaintop, Michael tells Lucifer, "Don't you think this childish rebellion has gone on long enough?"

Lucifer smirks. "That was a pretty speech you gave, brother."

"Sammael." Michael looks him in the eyes. "I do not want to battle you. I never did."

"Michael," Lucifer murmurs gently, slowly raising a hand, holding it steady between them. "Michael, my dearest brother."

Just as slowly, steadily gazing back at him, Michael clasps his fingers around Lucifer's.

"For you," Lucifer vows, "the only one who calls me by my true name—for you, Michael, I will delay the final battle. Until your human life is lived out, this world will not end."

"Thank you," Michael whispers.

When Lucifer pulls him close, he clings just as tightly and kisses just as fiercely.

o0o

Eliot Spencer returns to his apartment after two days away and no one blinks. His team knows he goes on sabbaticals from time to time. They have a new job and he throws himself into it.

The Winchesters keep fighting the good fight and trying to atone for their weaknesses. Castiel searches for God with renewed vigor.

Michael wonders how anyone cane be so blind. God is right in front of their eyes and even Sammael does not see Him.

Lucifer still raises a little Hell, but that is to be expected. Michael resolves to live a long time as Eliot Spencer and decides that he'll protect any family the team has in the horrors that follow his death.

o0o

"When will you let him know?" Eliot asks God in a dream.

Hazel eyes gleam and full lips smirk. "You think it's time yet?"

Eliot shrugs. "I can't hope to fathom the mind of God."

God laughs. "Don't worry, sweetheart," he assures Eliot. "It'll be awhile yet. Live out your life, love your friends, and tend your garden."

Eliot nods. He wakes laughing because Castiel never wondered why that small yellow charm felt warm against his skin until he left Dean Winchester's presence.


	37. House, MD

**Title**: The strongest among you may not wear a crown

**Fandom**: "House MD"/"Supernatural" crossover

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. Title from 3 Doors Down

**Warnings**: season one spoilers for "Supernatural"; takes place sometime mid-season two for "House"

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 1630

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

Robert first notices the ability after a blinding headache lasts three days. He moves past shock, denial, and acceptance to realize he can only heal superficial wounds and it doesn't take much to wear himself out. He also can't heal himself.

Once he'd gotten over the awe at having any ability at all, he's angry that it isn't a better one. What's the point of healing a paper-cut if you can't fix a dying heart?

o0o

It's three weeks after the ability first manifests when Robert has the dream.

He is back home, in the old house, watching Mum watch one of her soaps. She's got a can in one hand and a sandwich in the other, and she takes a bite, washing it down with a gulp.

"Robbie!" she suddenly yells. "Bring me chips!"

"In a moment, Mum!" he hears himself yell back.

Another voice says, "Sucked, didn't it, Rob." He turns and there's a man standing by the window. "Always taking care of your dear mommy. No help from anyone." The man tsks, shaking his head. "Lots of responsibility for a youngster."

Robert backs away, unsure. "Who are you?"

The man grins. "I could be your best friend, boyo," he purrs. His eyes flash golden as he adds, "Or your worst nightmare."

He steps forward and Robert backs into the wall. "Listen to me, Robert Chase," the man says. "You can heal anyone except yourself—you can heal any wound, any hurt, but there is a price." He smirks. "And I think you'll pay it, smiling all the way."

Robert wakes up trembling.

o0o

He's working in the ER when a busload of injured are brought in. Too many of them are children, and he works for hours trying to figure out what's wrong and what needs to be done. Robert comes across a little boy, no more than four, body broken in too many places. He won't survive the next ten minutes.

_You can heal any wound, any hurt, _the man from his dream says. But he's never been able to fix anything worse than a bruise, and the boy is _dying_.

But he has to try. He'll never forgive himself if he doesn't at least try. So he looks around for any witness, but everyone's busy dealing with other patients. This little boy was written off as a lost cause. Robert is the only hope left to him.

He places his hands on the boy, on his chest and his forehead, and delves deep into himself. He sends the power into the boy, trying to heal his insides first—superficial healing will mean nothing if he keeps bleeding internally. The organs re-knit, and the muscles, and Robert keeps sending the power. He's panting by the time the kid's heart beats on its own, and he collapses when the ribs realign. The kid will be fine if he gets immediate attention, so Robert yells, "Here!" and then lets himself black out.

o0o

Robert wakes in a hospital bed three days later. One of the nurses pages House; Cameron and Foreman come with him. The first question Robert asks, as House limps in, is "The kid?"

House just stares at him, but Cameron says, "He'll be fine."

Robert breathes a sigh of relief and closes his eyes, still exhausted.

"Don't even think about going back to sleep," House tells him, limping closer.

"Sorry," Robert whispers, unable to stay awake.

o0o

The yellow-eyed man is in his dream again, this time Mum's funeral. He sits next to Robert and says, "You did good, kiddo. That boy'll live a nice long life 'cause of you."

"Who are you?" Robert asks, watching his younger self sob silently.

"Like I told you, Rob," the man murmurs, leaning close, "your best friend. Or worst nightmare. Entirely up to you."

The man pats his back and adds, "It'll get easier with practice and time. One day, you might even be able to raise the dead. That'll be cool, right?"

Robert shivers. "I'm not a god," he says. "Only God can do that."

The man chuckles. "That's where you're wrong, kiddo." He leans even further in, putting his mouth right by Robert's ear. "You're not a god _yet_."

o0o

Robert wakes again only hours later, feeling better than he has since his power first manifested.

"That boy was dead," House says from the bedside chair. His blue eyes pin Robert in place. "He was dead when they brought him in." House stands, hands tight on his cane. "That is interesting, don't you think?"

Robert shivers, unable to meet House's gaze. "That must have been an incorrect diagnosis," he offers, voice shaky.

House scoffs. "Call this woman," he says, holding out a post-it note. "She'll be able to help you, and teach you how not to give yourself away."

Robert reaches up, taking the slip of paper. "You… you know?" he asks in a whisper.

House smiles, the first gentle expression Robert has ever seen on his face. Especially after all the times Robert has royally screwed up. "You're not alone, Dr. Chase," House tells him. "Don't think you are."

He turns and leaves, saying over his shoulder, "You get a week off. Don't waste it."

Robert looks down at the piece of paper. Written on it in House's too-neat-for-a-doctor handwriting are a phone number and the name Missouri Moseley.

o0o

Robert doesn't ring Miss Moseley until he's home from the hospital, ensconced on his couch wrapped in one of Mum's old quilts. He's already had three mugs of hot cocoa and tried dialing the number three times.

_You're not a god yet, _the yellow-eyed man says. _I could be your best friend, or your worst nightmare. _

_There will be a price. _

House has been an arsehole and a prick, but he's always right in the end.

"Been waitin' for you to work up the courage," Miss Moseley says on the other end of the line. "You come on down here, boy, and we'll get everything sorted out."

Robert agrees to go.

o0o

Miss Moseley in person is exactly as she was on the phone.

"Well, come on in," she says, bustling to the kitchen. "I put on a kettle, enough water for two. Cocoa?"

He follows in bemusement. "That would be fine," he replies. "Miss, who are you, exactly?"

She laughs. "I'm a psychic," she answers. "Didn't Greg tell you that?"

Robert raises an eyebrow. "Really?"

Miss Moseley raises an eyebrow right back. "You can heal people and you're doubtin' me?"

He shrugs. "I could heal people before."

She scoffs. "Not like this."

He looks down, studies her hardwood floor. "There's been a man in my dreams," Robert confesses. "He told me that I could be a god. Could raise the dead."

Miss Moseley walks over and looks him straight in the eye. "You already have." She leads the way to the den, carrying a tray with two mugs and a plate of chocolate chip cookies, and nods to the couch. He sinks onto it in a daze. House said the boy was dead, but Robert had _felt_ his life. There'd still been something in his body to save.

"You gotta be careful, boy," she tells him, handing him a cup of hot cocoa. "The things that heal can also hurt." She settles into a chair across from him.

"What?" he asks, sitting up straight.

She smiles, a bit sadly. "The very same thing that lets you fix bodies, Dr. Chase," she says, "can also destroy them. Rewire them. Stop the blood, dry up the water, send the electricity our systems need away."

"No, I can't do that," he denies. "I don't want to do that."

Miss Mosley pats his leg. "I know," she says. "But not _wantin'_ to and not bein' _able_ to are very different things."

Robert sips his cocoa in silence, thinking about the past few months. The yellow-eyed man.

"How d'you know House?" he asks, settling on that one thing to anchor himself in the storm.

She grins, settling back against the chair. "He lived down the street for a while, years and years ago," she says. "I've always had my gift and he found me fascinatin'." She shrugs.

He sets down the mug. "The yellow-eyed man," he starts, "from my dreams. Is he bad?"

Miss Moseley nods. "Not the worst, but close. You need to be careful, boy. He's twisted, lyin' like we breathe."

Robert slumps down, drumming his fingers on his thigh. The knowledge isn't really a surprise, but he still finds he's disappointed.

They sit in silence for a few moment, Miss Mosely sipping her cocoa. When Miss Mosely speaks, Robert startles.

"You know that your mother's death wasn't your fault?"

Robert looks away. Of course it was. He should have taken better care of her.

Miss Moseley sighs and mutters, "What is it with the pretty ones, always takin' too much blame onto themselves? Honestly." Robert looks at her, wondering what she means, but she just waves a hand. "Don't worry about that. We should get started on how to keep yourself from burnin' out, boy."

He nods, setting aside his mug. "What do I do?"

She holds out a hand and he places his palm on hers. "Just breathe," she says. "Let me in. We need to start building some walls in your mind."

Robert closes his eyes and inhales deeply, giving her permission as he lets the breath out.

"Don't be afraid," Miss Moseley tells him. "Trust me. You can do a great good for the world."

_There will be a price, _the yellow-eyed man said.

That boy will live because Robert healed him. "I'm not afraid," he says softly, looking into Miss Moseley's eyes. "I want to… I need to learn control."

She smiles, squeezing his hand. "Then let's start, baby."


	38. Paradise Lost 2

**Title**: an abundance of wings

**Fandom**: Supernatural/_Paradise Lost_

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: spoilers for 5.8

**Pairings**: none stated

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 280

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: Gabriel, his distance from Heaven isn't physical

* * *

After the fire goes out, he stays inside the ring. Hours, days, weeks—it doesn't matter. Nothing matters.

It is the end of days. The final endgame, Lucifer stalking the world again, and Father... Father is gone. Still. Again. That doesn't matter either.

The tricks—Gabr—_he_ has been gone from Heaven since that last mission, when he delivered the Son to that human maiden's womb. He has been gone for so long… and yet, not long by Heaven's standards. He could return right now and few would have even noticed his absence.

With a snap he's at the desert, wearing Coyote's face again. Another snap and he's in Africa as the Spider. A third and he's farther north, wreathed in fire as Loki.

So many names and faces he's worn. All are so more familiar than Gabriel, the Messenger. Bearer of God's Word.

He misses Michael. And Lucifer. Even Abdiel and his blind devotion to Father.

Coyote, Anansi, Loki, and Gabriel—trickster and angel, errant son and deity himself.

Heaven has never seemed farther away as he stares up at the sky after Dean's diatribe, wondering and pondering and mourning.

So long since he's thought of himself as an angel, crafted and breathed into life by God's hand and God's song. At any moment, he could have gone back, and he never did. Instead, in a subtler way than Satan, he'd punished humanity for existing. For taking his place as God's favorite.

It is the endgame, and the time has come to choose a side.

Gabriel takes a deep breath, spreads his wings, and soars to the dark backroad where a beast of a car is eating up the miles.


	39. The Magnificent Seven

**Title**: shark hunt

**Fandom**: Supernatural/The Magnificent Seven modern-day AU

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: none

**Pairings**: past Dean/Ezra, current Ezra/Vin

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 280

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: Dean/Ezra, two of a kind

"Got room for one more?" Dean asks, pulling up a chair and sprawling on it.

"Of course," Ezra drawls. "Gentlemen, and lovely lady, do you mind if I deal in our late-comin' friend?"

To a chorus of negatives, Ezra grins, gold tooth glinting. "What do you have for a first wager?"

Dean's own smirk is outright dangerous. "Nothin' I can't stand to lose."

Meanwhile, Sam has settled down next to a man trying to blend into the wall, hiding at least three knives and guns on his body, and asks, "Your friend do this often?"

Blue eyes that see everything and miss nothing give him a once over. "Yours?" he asks in turn.

Sam nods and sighs.

Now, the look is commiserating. "Bet you got some fine stories about games gone wrong."

Smiling, Sam says, "That I do."

o0o

After the game, which Dean wins, he and Ezra meander to the bar and Dean buys them both a round. Dean quickly takes in Sam's buddy and smirks at Ezra. "Finally found a partner?" he asks, leaning on a stool.

"I see your brother finally found his calling on the road," Ezra returns.

"I guess that means we can't get outta here and find somewhere to do somethin' fun," Dean says.

"That would be correct, Mr. Winchester," Ezra tells him, raising his glass. "Unless you want Vin to fill you full of lead."

Dean laughs. "Good for you, Ez."

Ezra smiles, not his sharking grin or his _time for you to die_ smirk. "The years since we parted have been kind to me, Dean. Vin is…" He shrugs. "You understand."

Nodding, Dean gently taps their glasses together. "That I do."


	40. NCIS

**Title**: the used-to-be warriors

**Fandom**: NCIS/Supernatural

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from Adrienne Rich.

**Warnings**: takes place early in season 3 for NCIS; spoilers for everything aired in Supernatural

**Pairings**: none stated

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 290

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

_You can't hide much longer, brother_, Michael whispers in his ear. _You've survived too many things to be a man. Our time is approaching; soon, my vessel will be ready. You must stand with me._

_No,_ Tony replies, turning his face away. _I left all that behind when I crafted this form._

_Azrael, _Michael says quietly. _We cannot succeed without you. If you were not one of us, you'd be long dead—remember that._

Tony knows the words are true: human lungs wouldn't have lasted through the plague and a human couldn't have outrun that bomb. Without wings, he'd have died while McGee and Kate rushed to safety.

_You can return_, Michael cajoles, hands warm and familiar on Tony's skin. Tony still refuses to look at him.

_I will offer you one more chance, on the eve of battle_, Michael says coldly, pulling away. _Know that there are but two sides to this war, mine and Lucifer's. You are with me, Azrael, or you are with him._

_I understand, Michael, _Tony murmurs. _And I wish you well_.

Tony woke shivering and burrowed deeper into his blankets. That dream had long since become tiresome, and he wondered if there were anyone but a shrink he could talk to about it. He resolved to keep ignoring it until it went away. Anyway, it probably just meant he had delusions of grandeur—why else would the Archangel Michael keep visiting and practically begging Tony to stand by his side at the End of Days?

It didn't matter. Tony still had a job to do, so he might as well get up and head to the office.

He made a mental note to look up Azrael; it was the first time Michael had used the name.


	41. NCIS 2

**Title**: huddled close beside a log

**Fandom**: Supernatural/NCIS

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from Allison Krauss

**Warnings**: preseries for both shows

**Pairings**: none stated

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 145

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: foil

* * *

"Oh, fuck," Tony whispered, ducking back behind the stump. "Seriously, what the hell?"

"Dude, shut up," the far-too-pretty stranger hissed from behind his own stump. "Do you _want_ the fugly to find and eviscerate us? Those claws aren't just for show, you know."

"_You_ shut up!" Tony shot back. "This is your fault."

"My fault?" pretty!stranger demanded. "No, it's _your_ fault."

Tony rolled his eyes, but he flinched back when the toothy monster roared. Glancing at the gun in his hand, he looked over at pretty!stranger's sawed-off shotgun. "Got another one of those?" he asked hopefully.

Pretty!stranger pulled a second shotgun from somewhere, so Tony reholstered his own piece. "Aim for the head or the heart," pretty!stranger whispered, crawling to Tony's side. "Kill shots are the only thing that'll slow it down."

Tony took a breath; the monster roared again and pretty!stranger said, "Now."


	42. mythology

**Title**: I danced in the morning when the world was begun

**Fandom**: Supernatural/mythology

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from Sydney Carter

**Warnings**: spoilers for aired season 5

**Pairings**: none stated

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 130

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: territory

* * *

_MorningStar killed our boy_, Spider tells Coyote.

Yellow eyes glare. _Such an affront can't go unpaid_, he replies, tongue licking his chops.

_Three of us, since we took the boy into our web, taught him to play_, Spider says.

_He did us proud_, Coyote says. _Brought honor to our den._

_Yes_, Spider decides. _I'll weave punishment for the one who snuffed out our little flame._

_I'll help, _Coyote growls.

In the middle of a spell, Lucifer shivers. He feels the shadow of spider-legs on his face and hears the sharp bark of a coyote.

He shakes it off. After all, he is the LightBringer, the Star of Morning. Only his father or Michael can harm him. So he goes back to work without worry.

Spider laughs and Coyote smiles.


	43. NCIS 3

**Title**: companions

**Fandom**: NCIS/Supernatural

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: pre-series for Supernatural; early season 3 for NCIS

**Pairings**: implied future!Gibbs/Tony, Tony/Dean

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 830

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: message

* * *

Every now and then, Tony gets hang-up calls from an unknown number. Sometimes, he seems to not even notice, and others, he gets all worked up, taking out frustration and worry on the team.

Not that Jethro thinks anyone but him can tell. Tony is a very good actor, masterful at deflecting attention where he wants it.

After he starts paying attention, Jethro realizes the calls only come on the second and twenty-fourth of every month, to Tony's private cell. As soon as Tony answers, whoever it is hangs up.

Tony has to know the caller, and the significance of the dates. It must be some kind of message. But Jethro has no idea what.

He could ask Abby to trace the number, but if Tony hasn't taken any action yet, it's not really Jethro's place. He hates it when people pry into his personal life, so looking into this would be hypocritical and nosy and—

Damnit, Tony is his agent and someone is fucking with the boy.

o0o

What Abby finds out only confuses the issue more. The call never comes from the same number twice. Most are actually payphones, scattered throughout the continental US. There seems to be no rhyme or reason to the locations; on April second of '01, the origin was in Maine, but the twenty-fourth, it came from Houston, and then May second, San Francisco. Always the same two days, going back for as long as Tony had the same cell number. When Abby dug deeper, she found that every phone he had, landline or cell, he got the calls on those two days.

"I'll ask him," Abby says, "if you don't."

But then things happened, with the plague and Ari and Kate. The phone calls slip from Jethro's mind.

o0o

After Ari dies, Jethro and what remain of his team get two weeks leave. Abby and Ducky, too, per Jen's orders. They'd been targets, so they need calm and quiet, away from work.

The second week coincides with a call and it isn't until he's flipping through the paper that Jethro realizes it, and he decides he's waited long enough. Tony is his responsibly, and if someone is fucking with Tony, then Jethro will fuck with them.

o0o

He knocks on the door, but it isn't Tony who answers. "Yeah?" the kid asks. He can't be much more than twenty-five, if that, too pretty by far.

"I'm here to see Tony," Jethro says. "Who're you?"

The kid smirks. "You _must_ be Gibbs," he drawls. "Tony sure has told me a lot about you." He steps back from the door. "Yo, Tony!" he hollers as Jethro follows him in. "Bossman here to see you, dude."

The kid gestures for Jethro to keep following him; once they reach the den, the kid flops down on the couch, but Jethro stays standing.

"Gibbs!" Tony says, hurrying in. "Can I get you something? Beer, coffee, water?"

Shaking his head, Jethro remarks, "Your guest forgot his name."

"Boss, this is Dean. He's—" Tony's pause is infinitesimal, but Jethro hears it loud and clear. "—an old friend," Tony finishes, grin wide and bright. "Can I help you with something?"

Jethro stares at the kid, Dean. There's tension in the boy's shoulders, as his hands run over some device, gently pulling it apart. He sets each piece of the innards on Tony's coffee table. Dean glances up at Jethro, eyebrow raised, before focusing back on his work.

"Today's the twenty-fourth," Jethro says. "Just wondering if your bimonthly call came in yet."

Tony blinks at him. "What?"

"Didn't need to call," Dean says without looking up from his task. "I'm here in person, LJ."

Jethro raises an eyebrow while Tony's eyes widen. "What'd you call me?" Jethro demands.

Dean's words are threaded with laughter when he says, "I let Tony known I'm alive a couple times a month, and he returns the favor. But I'm here, so I didn't need to call." He does meet Jethro's eyes when he adds, "And your initials _are_ LJ, right?"

"Call me Gibbs, if you call me anything," Jethro commands, and the kid throws off a sloppy, sarcastic salute.

Jethro turns on his heel and he marches for the door, Tony following. "He is a friend, Boss," Tony tells him. "You don't need to—"

"Worry, DiNozzo?" Jethro finishes. "I know."

"I called him, soon as I could after the plague. He couldn't get away from his job till just now. He'll be here for a few more days before heading on." Tony pauses, searching Jethro's face. "I'll try not to let Dean's calls affect me on the job anymore. It's just—sometimes he's in trouble and I can't help."

Jethro nods. "I understand, Tony." He slaps the back of Tony's head and says over his shoulder as he leaves, "I expect you to be well-rested when your vacation's over."

Tony chokes and Jethro smirks as the door closes behind him.


	44. Paradise Lost 3

**Title**: whom none with more zeal adored

**Fandom**: Supernatural/Paradise Lost

**Disclaimer**: title from Paradise Lost

**Warnings**: spoilers for season 5

**Pairings**: Gabriel/Zachariah

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 265

**Point of view**: third

**Prompt**: Gabriel/Zachariah, wing grooming

* * *

They weren't always like this, you know. Once, back before, when Lucifer and Michael still stood together and gazed at Father's perfect garden in awe, when Uriel led Castiel and Raphael around in a game of tag through the clouds, when Anachel sang loudest in the choir—when Zachariah was named Abdiel, he and Gabriel were the closest of friends.

The world was young, and so were they, and they were curious and beautiful, and sin did not exist. Zachariah has tried to forget those days, tried to erase his fleeting existence as naïve and blind and loyal Abdiel. Abdiel was useless and foolish and a blight on Zachariah's memory.

Abdiel was Gabriel's friend. To use a meatsuit's term, Abdiel was Gabriel's lover. Closer than anyone else, deep in his marrow and his heart, the being that knew him best. But Gabriel left Abdiel behind, in Heaven's static and boring clouds. Gabriel didn't even hint that he was going. Lucifer fell to become Satan and Gabriel fled in the night, a coward, and Abdiel was alone with Uriel and Castiel and Anachel and Raphael.

Abdiel stood before Lucifer unafraid and told him he was wrong. Abdiel looked God in the face and told Him of Lucifer's plan. And Gabriel didn't even ask Abdiel to follow him from Heaven.

So, no, they weren't always like this, Gabriel rogue and Zachariah at the helm of Heaven's ship. Once, they were like Michael and Lucifer had been, like Dean and Sam still are. Those days, though, are a long time gone, and Zachariah pretends they never were.


	45. Dark Angel 6

**Title**: a panther in kittenskin

**Fandom**: Supernatural/Dark Angel

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: spoilers for season 5

**Pairings**: none stated

**Rating**: PG  
**Wordcount**: 305

**Point of view**: third

**Prompt**: Sam/Alec, Sam is immortal. Dean wasn't

* * *

Lucifer did something to his body. Sam isn't sure what, but he's changed now. He can't die, not even for a moment, but Dean... Dean can die. He dies three days after Sam punches his way out of Hell, and he stays dead this time. God isn't listening, the angels stay in Heaven, and Lucifer's locked away in Hell. No demons make a deal.

Dean's dead, after everything. Sam's alone.

He doesn't say a word for nine years.

o0o

The Pulse happened in 2011. Sam didn't really notice. He survived like he always does, wandering from place to place, hunting as needed. It wasn't long before his kills became human, if that was the only way.

Humans are easy to kill. Sam could grow to crave it, but he always forces himself to remember how Dean looked, after that alley, way back when they had just saved Dad. Everything got fucked after that, but Dean's self-disgust, his apprehension—Sam clings to that. It helps.

Nine years after Dean dies, eight years after the Pulse changed the landscape, Sam walks into a bar in Seattle. He's more than human, more than demon, more than angel. He's the closest thing to God walking the Earth, and the only thing he can't do is raise the dead. Turn back time. Die.

He walks into a bar in Seattle and bumps against a lithe, powerful body. "Sorry, man," someone mutters and brushes past him.

He knows that voice. He spins in place, following with his eyes, and lunges after him, yelling, "Dean!"

His first word since that horrible day, and this boy isn't a shapeshifter, isn't Dean's son, but he's the only thing remotely like his brother that Sam's seen in nearly a decade.

The kid doesn't pause. He doesn't know Sam.

But Sam knows him, and that's more than enough.


	46. Paradise Lost 4

**Title**: besmear'd with blood

**Fandom**: Supernatural/Paradise Lost

**Disclaimer**: title from Milton

**Warnings**: future!fic

**Pairings**: implied demon/Dean

**Rating**: PG13

**Point of view**: third

**Wordcount**: 180

**Prompt**: Castiel + any, Castiel must pretend to be a demon

* * *

It is easier than he expected. To find the darkness that has been slowly leeching into his soul since he connected so fully to Dean Winchester. To sink down into that darkness, that desolation, that all-consuming need and want, and the utter pain of being gone from Heaven.

He is no longer Castiel, the scholarly angel, the Righteous Man's savior. He is now a demon, a damned soul that long since forgot its name. So, to make things simple, he chooses a new name for this guise, of his long-gone brother, Cassiel. The last king he killed was before any language now spoken existed, but maybe Moloch will remember.

The seductive nature of this task whispers to him, and Dean looks beautiful at the end of his chain, bound to Moloch by blood and hellfire and his willing sacrifice to save Sam.

"Cassiel," Moloch booms, pulling Dean closer and running a possessive talon down his flank. "I remember you, angel. You've come a long way."

Castiel gazes long at Dean, eyes downcast and breaths shallow, and then turns to Moloch.


	47. Batman: Under the Red Hood

**Title**: just like band-aids on bruises

**Fandom**: Supernatural/_Batman: Under the Red Hood_

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: spoilers for Supernatural and the movie

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 140

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

There's someone else inside him, someone just as angry and just as dark, someone who whispers,_ we could do so much better than this, kid, we could draw it out and make it last, make him beg and whimper and scream, scream so loud they'll hear it in Hell. We could do that, kid._

But his fingers are clenched around the crowbar and the Joker is spread out before him, still trying to get the upper hand with his endless monologue. And he wants the Joker to hurt, to beg and whimper and scream, but he's planned this for half a decade, him with a crowbar and the Joker at his feet.

He's planned this, and Batman is coming, and the someone inside him says quietly, _don't worry, kiddo, we'll have time later. All the time in Hell_.


	48. Four Brothers

**Title**: brothers and strangers

**Fandom**: Supernatural/Four Brothers

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: pre-series and pre-movie; implied child molestation

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 220

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: Dean/Jack, Jack was tempted to let this man have his way with him.

* * *

Jack does not like men touching him. That's been true since he was four and—yeah, not going there. But he doesn't like men, and he doesn't like men touching him, and if Bobby—who is not a man, but his _brother_—was here, then this douchebag wouldn't be looking at Jack like he's a piece of meat.

Jack knows that look. Jack hates that look. Worse, Jack _fears_ that look, like he's still four, but he's not, and he left home and Ma, and Bobby's not here, and Jerry and Angel aren't here, and—

"Hey, kiddo, sorry I'm late," someone says, dropping onto the stool next to him. "The boss was being a dickhead, but I got away soon as a I could."

Jack stares at him blankly for a minute, taking in the warm hazel eyes and smartass smile, before nodding. "'s'kay, man, I think I was early."

They make smalltalk, the kind two friends who haven't seen each other in a while might, and the douchebag's stare shifts to the stranger, and Jack relaxes because this guy, whatever his name is, he can clearly take care of himself.

In fact, he reminds Jack of Bobby. For a moment, Jack even thinks about letting this man touch him, but whoever he is, he's not a brother.


	49. Whedon'verse vampires

**Title**: long live the king

**Fandom**: Supernatural/Buffy the Vampire Slayer/Angel the Series

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: spoilers for season five of Supernatural

**Pairings**: none, really

**Rating**: PGish

**Wordcount**: 275

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: Buffy/Supernatural, Drusilla on Sam, The stars told her about him

* * *

The stars whisper so pretty about the king to be, the boy born for Lucifer's fire, to burn and to scorch, to raze all that is for what will come.

_glorious glorious glorious is the king,_ she tells Daddy and her darling William.

_brightly burning, beautiful boy,_ she murmurs into Grandmum's skin as she returns her to the night.

He is young yet, still a child, unprepared for all that he will do and be. But his potential—

The stars sing and scream, and she dances dances dances, but her Spike won't whirl with her, and Daddy and Grandmum are gone, and she is alone, the pale princess in a tower of bone, waiting waiting waiting...

_glorious is the king,_ she shouts to the dark sky as Lucifer's light pierces the night, telling all who can read the signs that he is returned, walking the world again, wings spread wide to shelter all his children from the cruel sun.

_and the Son shall burn, and the Sword tarnish, weak and frail and bleeding so pretty,_ she tells the little doll in her arms, warmth filling her from the sweet veins. _bleeding so pretty like you._

And a single short year later, the stars whisper that the king to be has defeated Lucifer and taken his throne, that the Sword is in his hand and by his side, and that finally, _finally, the world is ours, to remake in our image, take it and do your will, meet your king._

And she does, the last of her bloodline, she seeks him out because he will need a seer, someone who can hear the song of the stars.


	50. Dark Angel 7

**Title**: cloning and kids

**Fandom**: Supernatural/Dark Angel

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: AU for Dark Angel; future!fic for Supernatural with vague spoilers for season 5

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 145

**Point of view**: third

**Prompt**: Supernatural-Dark Angel crossover. Because you can never have too much Dean and Alec interaction! Plus, bonus - add Ben for triple your fun. *g*

* * *

The kid is slick, working the room like a pro. His brother is perched in the corner, sharp eyes wary for any hint of danger, of the mood turning south.

Dean smirks into his beer while Sam rolls his eyes. "Why are so many copies of you runnin' around?" he asks.

Shrugging, Dean says, "I guess I'm just too pretty."

The brother's eyes flick over and Dean catches his slight reaction. The kid playing pool glances his way; his response is slightly more obvious.

Dean waves at the brother, then the kid. Sam rolls his eyes again.

The kid saunters over first, his brother slinking in his wake, and they settle across from Dean and Sam.

Dean straightens in his seat as Sam lowers his bottle. Dean studies the two kids wearing his face and wonders if Hell or Heaven is involved this time.


	51. mythology 2

**Title**: the great mother

**Fandom**: Supernatural/mythology

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: takes place during season 5

**Pairings**: none stated

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 180

**Point of view**: third

**Prompt**: Castiel, Cas talks to Gaia for info. about God

* * *

Uriel would call him a naive child. Uriel would stand before him in their true form, of air and fire and spirit. Uriel would scorn this action, kneeling on the Earth and praying to Gaia, She who came first, She who created the creator, She who is, was, and will be unto the ending of all and even after.

Uriel, at the end, did not believe in God, so Castiel knows he never believed in Gaia. But the more time Castiel spends among humans, inside Jimmy, the more feels _something_. It is not of Heaven, or of Hell, which leaves only Earth.

Gaia. God's Mother, She who first created, and She who will finally decide when everything ends.

And so, in Jimmy's body, he kneels upon the dirt and whispers, asking for aid in finding Father, Her firstborn child.

He stays there until dawn and while he never hears Gaia's voice, his phone rings, Dean on the other end.

The wind seems to laugh as he answers, and he supposes that means something.

(Much later, he'll realize what that something was.)


	52. White Collar

**Title**: the greatest game

**Fandom**: White Collar/Supernatural

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: spoilers for 6.2 of Supernatural

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 165

**Point of view**: third

**Prompt**: Neal +or/ any, Neal is a shapeshifter

* * *

He drops the child off at one of his safe-houses, in care of his oldest daughter; she smiles as she takes the infant, assuring him that the others are all accounted for and sleeping.

He only stays a few minutes, and as he goes, he calls in a long-owed favor—his brother answers immediately, and his concerns of safety are alleviated as what the hunters would term the werewolf king sends his strongest pack to guard the property.

Dawn will come soon and he is four states away from New York. For a moment he ponders abandoning the identity, but so much effort has been put into it already, almost three decades worth.

It is an hour before he is in his apartment, and one of his oldest friends smiles as she passes him on the stairs; in silence he cancels the spell on his anklet, shifts his face to that of Neal Caffrey, and, as the sun rises, smiles at the mirror.


	53. Smallville 2

**Title**: villainy

**Fandom**: Supernatural/Smallville

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: AU for both shows

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 100

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: Lex +or/ any, Lex was one of the YED's special children and he and Sam are the last ones standing

* * *

He doesn't have the flashiest of powers, or the greatest strength. But he is patient, and he is rich, and he is determined—above all—to win.

And when all but one other of Azazel's chosen are dead, he finally steps out of the shadows for a face-to-face confrontation.

Lex has an army waiting for his word, people handpicked over the last few years, and he has an intuition for how to bend the strings of reality to coerce things to his will.

Sam Winchester has a determination to match Lex's own, a lifetime of training, and his big brother.


	54. White Collar 2

**Title**: ships in the night

**Fandom**: White Collar/Supernatural

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: none

**Pairings**: maybe some implied Dean/Neal

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 175

**Point of view**: third

**Prompt**: Neal/Dean, never try to con a conman

* * *

Not many people have the strength of will or character to lie to Peter's face, and keep on lying after he catches on, eyes shining with the smirk he doesn't let twist his lips, but this guy, damn, he's good.

And maybe if Peter hadn't seen the grin he'd shared with Neal when he sauntered into the gallery, he'd have been fooled. Not for long, but he's honest enough with himself to admit that, yeah, this guy might have gotten past him.

Neal knows he's watching, and he's pretty sure Johnny Jones, out of the Houston office, knows, too, as they chat about what seems innocent, on the surface, but the surface means nothing with Neal, because even the shallows are rife with half-truths, bald-faced lies, and things that might be true, if bent, shaken, and stirred.

And the next morning, as Neal swears he _knew nothing about any jobs in the works, everything was hypothetical, trust me, and, anyway, it was an ugly vase with a __**curse**__, Peter_, Peter just rolls his eyes.


	55. Watchmen

**Title**: Forgive me, my heroes, for thinking this tragic

**Fandom**: Supernatural/Watchmen

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from Betsy Sholl

**Warnings**: pre-series for both

**Pairings**: pre-Edward Blake/Dean, mentions of possible John/Dean

**Rating**: PG13

**Wordcount**: 250

**Point of view**: third

**Prompt**: Dean/Comedian, different/more/beg

* * *

Dean's seen the way Dad watches him sometimes, far more frequently as he's gotten older, and he knows that Dad'll never say anything, and he'd have to get Dad completely wasted for Dad to ever take it if Dean offered, and, well.

Even if they both want it, that'd be too much like rape for Dean's comfort.

Dad's off somewhere in the southwest and Dean's got a hunt up in New York. Sammy's playing house at Stanford, Dean's lonely, and he wants to connect with someone. Anyone. He can't have what he really wants, so he'll take what he can get, and that's usually a lot.

So, he's in this bar, checking out the prospects, and this guy walks in, almost identical to Dad, though Dean can tell at the first glance he's not.

Dean knew Dad had an older brother, but he didn't realize they could pass for twins. And this guy, he moves like Dad, he sounds gruff like Dad, he smells like gunpowder and cigar smoke, and Dean won't mistake him for Dad, not even in the heat of the moment, but he's the closest Dean will _ever _come to Dad.

And he's watching Dean. Leaned against the counter, whiskey in hand, he's watching Dean with a gaze as sharp and dangerous as Dad's.

So Dean smirks at him, salutes him with his glass, and drains down his own whiskey.

This is the closest he'll ever come to what he really wants, so he'll make it count.


	56. Aladdin

**Title**: an infinity of dreams

**Fandom**: Supernatural/Aladdin

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: SN went AU sometime; future!fic for Aladdin

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**:215

**Point of view**: third

**Prompt**: any, what if they found a good genie who granted three wishes and didn't turn out evil or to be a trick

* * *

"When I said I couldn't bring anybody back," Big Blue tells him gently, "I meant it."

Dean glares at him before glancing away. There is nothing to wish for, then.

"Dude," Big Blue says, risking a maiming by touching his shoulder. "Anything you want _now_. College or employment or three trillion dollars. No tricks, I swear. I owe you more than I can ever repay."

Shrugging off his hand, Dean steps out of reach. "I want my family back. If you can't give me that, we got nothin' to discuss."

Big Blue sighs sadly. "Please," he entreats.

Dean looks at him for a moment before rolling his eyes. "Fine," he bites off. "I wish my impala would never break down again. I wish my record was spotless." He pauses, staring up at the cloudy sky. "And I wish... I wish you'd be happy in whatever you do with your life."

Big Blue blinks at him, a thunderstruck expression on his face. "You know, I only ever had one master like you before. Some of you humans are amazing people."

Dean just turns and walks away. He's still got a hunt to finish, and everyone he cares about is still dead.

If a genie can't bring them back, he'll just have to find another way.


	57. Dark Angel 8

**Title**: by firelight

**Fandom**: Dark Angel/Supernatural

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: AU for Dark Angel; AU future!fic for Supernatural

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 530

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: Orange

* * *

Ben stares into the flames, curled up near the fire. He's mostly warm, but his back is to the wilds and he's slightly nervous.

"Don't worry," his older self says without turning, face towards the darkness. "Nothin' will bother us tonight."

Ben doesn't react. He trusts his older self—mostly. Surely the Lady wouldn't have sent him a dangerous guide. But he's been on his own for over two years. Since the escape. And his older self is… frightening. He's already fought off half a dozen nomlies while Ben froze. (_their eyes, their eyes, color of a midnight sky, color of bone, bright, bright as sunlight_) But his older self simply waded into them and ripped them apart, quick as lightning and quieter than the cat in their shared blood.

"Call me Dean," his older self said, covered in gore. "It'll keep things simple."

They've traveled together for six days and nights now. Once, Ben woke up curled next to his older self, with Dean's arm around his shoulder, hand over Ben's heart. He stayed still until Dean moved away, but he thought about that moment almost constantly. He felt—safe. Warm, where Dean touched him.

He wonders how it would feel to let Dean hold him like he's seen normal parents hold normal children.

But instead of saying anything like that, so weak and childish, he asks, "Why are we going northwest?" He knows this is the way he fled in a panic, barely remembering his training to evade recapture. He would have never come back, except his older self has steadily gone west, gone north since he saved Ben from the nomlies. (_he's young, he's strong, he's oursoursours, brimstone and starlight_)

"You have a twin still in that place," Dean says. His voice is sharp, the words clipped. Ben knows his hands are clenched into fists and he's glaring at something. Nomlies in his past, maybe.

"We're going to get him out," Dean continues. "And then…"

Ben uncurls and goes to him, leaning into his side. Dean looks down, and his eyes soften. He loosens his fists and Ben stands still as he lifts a hand to place it on Ben's head.

"What happens after we save him?" Ben asks.

His older self smiles. "Then I start another war," he says. "Just as futile, but hopefully not as endless."

He shoots one more look around their camp then glances back at Ben. "C'mon, Benji," he says. "Let's get some sleep. Nothin'll bother us 'til sunup."

Ben lets Dean steer him back to the fire. Dean waits while Ben finds another comfortable spot and drops next to him, barely touching him.

Dean seems to hesitate before saying, "It might get cold tonight."

Ben thinks for a moment, watching his older self from the corner of his eye. He remembers his siblings, how they piled together. He slept better those nights.

So he shifts closers to Dean, and Dean wraps his arms around Ben, cheek against the crown of Ben's head, and Ben dreams that night of he and his twin, battling nomlies, and Dean back-to-back with a man he calls Sammy, laughing so loud it fills the sky.


	58. Inception

**Title**: we are the dreamers of dreams

**Fandom**: Inception/Supernatural

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: future!fic for film; vague spoilers for SN

**Pairings**: pre-Arthur/Eames

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 470

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: Inception, Arthur/Eames, Eames is an actual shapeshifter

* * *

There's a reason Eames is the best forger that dreamsharing has ever seen.

Most of his kind stick to the shadows, work alone, and try to avoid notice. Eames found, though, that trying to stay hidden means more people will discover what one doesn't want discovered, so he's making a name for himself and the only secrets that will be outed are the secrets he wants outed.

And maybe a few of his own, those sad and sorry creatures, will be angry, but not a single one of them will have the courage to endanger themselves just to get to him.

o0o

Arthur is the most dangerous thing Eames has ever seen.

Arthur isn't like him; he's something else, something _more_, and Eames is fascinated because he can tell Arthur doesn't know.

The first time Eames goes into Arthur's dreams, it is a ghost town and Eames can find nothing. He asks Cobb, in a roundabout way, and learns that Arthur's mind only ever shows what he wants it to show.

Well, Eames can relate to that.

o0o

After the Fischer job, they all go their separate ways. Eames is fine with that; he's on to the next great adventure.

He has a dream one night, not long after, of Arthur laughing on a bridge before throwing himself off. In the dream, Eames followed and he woke after he hit the water, when he was scrambling for Arthur's hand to pull him to the surface.

o0o

"Mr. Eames," Arthur says, a week after that nightmare, appearing suddenly in the chair across from Eames.

Eames knows he's awake, the same way he's always known.

"Yes, Arthur?" he asks, flicking a poker chip from one finger to the next.

Arthur hesitates a moment. Eames waits, allows Arthur to study his face, to take a slow breath, to gather his words.

"There's a man," Arthur begins. "In my dreams, whether I'm using the PASIV or not." Another hesitation, but Eames stays silent. "He has yellow eyes."

Eames hasn't kept up with the news from his kind, but he knows who Arthur means and he sucks in a sharp breath.

And Arthur is not a fool. He'd have done some research, found out about that business in America, and he'd only come to Eames for one reason.

"He's dead, Arthur, to the best of my knowledge."

Arthur nods. "I did discover that, but it doesn't change the fact that he's in my dreams and telling me things I'd really rather have not known."

Eames looks at him for a long moment, and Arthur looks back.

"To America, then?" Eames asks.

Arthur nods again.

o0o

Eames wonders sometimes what might have been, if that stupid yellow-eyed fucker hadn't been so wrapped up in that Winchester kid.

He figures they're all better off that he didn't focus on Arthur as his champion.


	59. mythology 3

**Title**: my intent is but to play

**Fandom**: Supernatural/mythology

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from Chaucer

**Warnings**: AU for both history and mythology

**Pairings**: Coyote/Gabriel

**Rating**: PG  
**Wordcount**:385

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: Supernatural, Gabriel, It all started with an introduction. "My name is Loki"

* * *

Gabriel is missing. Gabriel is dead.

o0o

He doesn't _Fall_, not exactly. He leaves Heaven fully intact, still bathed in pain and rage, and turns his back on everything he was and is and the family that won't stop fighting—but God lets him go.

God lets him go as an angel.

But he can't be known as an angel, because God won't strike him down. God won't protect him, either. He knew that when he left.

(God let Sammael go, too, and now only Lucifer remains. Only Satan. Once beloved, once the greatest, and now...)

He cannot be Gabriel anymore. He knew that when he left, too.

o0o

Humans are glorious. He does not worship them, and he does not love them, and they are not his superiors, but they _are _fascinating creatures. He was the first to ever speak to them, and after leaving, he does deliver one last message for God.

Humans look at him with so much wonder, when they know what he is. He likes that expression. And he is still the best at blending in.

o0o

There is a god that lives in an almost untouched land. Gabriel spends time with him, wandering from ocean to ocean. Their humor matches up, and they prank each other daily.

"I know what you are," Coyote tells him one night, curled up together beneath the moon.

Gabriel's wings twitch, just out of sight. He doesn't react beyond that, and, god or no, Coyote can't have felt them.

"You are a pretty bird," Coyote continues, "but we already have Raven. You'll need a different name." He nuzzles in, nosing against the junction between chin and neck. "You could be someone else's Raven," he says, nipping at Gabriel's skin. "Across the ocean, they have no sense of humor. You could teach them."

Gabriel breathes out, a noisy sigh. "What gave me away?" he asks, freeing his wings to wrap around them both.

Coyote laughs.

Three days later, Coyote's howl ringing in the air around him, Gabriel crosses an ocean and goes to a frozen land where they have need of a trickster.

o0o

Gabriel is missing. Gabriel is dead.

He smirks up at a god who is nowhere near as intimidating as Lucifer, thinks, _Coyote, boy were you right,_ and says, "Call me Loki."


	60. Glee

**Title**: he shall reign over ashes

**Fandom**: Supernatural/Glee

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from Sonthonax

**Warnings**: AU for Glee; demonic pov; spoilers for up to Never Been Kissed in Glee; spoilers for everything up to Swan Song in Supernatural.

**Pairings**: pre-Puck/Kurt; one-sided Karofsky/Kurt

**Rating**: PG13

**Wordcount**: 690

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: Kurt Hummel is one of Azazel's Special Children. Burt is an Ex-Hunter, who unlike John Winchester is more interested in protecting Kurt then Vengeance (A shotgun isn't all Burt has in the house). Puck is a Demon, set to watch and guide Kurt, but amazingly Puck falls in love, becoming loyal to Kurt -Kurt becomes addicted to Pucks Blood.

**Note**: this entire story is pre-kink, sorry.

* * *

Noah Puckerman died as a baby. Very few people know. The thing in his body, calling itself Puck? It's a demon. Doesn't really have a name, even in Hell. Old friend of Azazel, doing a favor.

See, Sam Winchester is the favorite to win. Has that whole angelic vessel of a brother. Sam was always going to win, if only because his big brother wouldn't accept anything different. And most of the contenders were chumps, anyway.

But Kaitlyn Hummel made a deal and the demon calling itself Puck (now) was bored with Hell. He vaguely remembered a life before, so he wanted to see what life was like in the present day. Azazel held the original negotiations and turned the whole thing over to Puck.

Burt and Kaitlyn Hummel had a son six months after Noah Puckerman died. Burt had retired from hunting when they married, and he didn't know about Kaitlyn's deal. He (probably) never would.

Puck took over the infant Noah's body and made it his own. He studied infants in daycare to see how to act. He didn't torture the parents or the kid sister that came a year before Dad left. He was actually a good brother.

Kids at school, though, were fair game. Especially Kurt Hummel. Every time Puck tormented him, he tried to guess Kurt's ability. He couldn't figure it out.

Then, while Puck and Kurt were in middle school, Azazel died, killed by his favorite's big brother. Puck knew the board was set and Lucifer would be free soon, but he didn't want the world to end anymore. He liked people and food and sex. So while the Winchesters were combating the end, Puck became a pool boy and had fun, and watched while Kurt blossomed.

Puck used to know a few angels, okay? And Kurt Hummel sings a thousand times better. And it might be Stockholm Syndrome or something, but he doesn't like it when Kurt is hurt anymore. Well, he likes the blood and tears, but only when he causes it. And if Karofsky body-checks Kurt one more time, Puck may kill him. It's been awhile since he had fun like that. Almost eighteen years.

Most of the abilities, Puck knows, died with Azazel. But Azazel wasn't the demon who bled in Kurt's mouth. Most of the kids didn't have a demon touch them nearly every day for a decade.

Sam Winchester seals Lucifer in a cage and Karofsky tries to fuck Kurt Hummel, and Puck jerks upright in a chair when Kurt's power comes online.

Kurt is a pyrokinetic, and Karofsky is ash. Puck chuckles, strutting into the locker room. "'sup, princess?" he asks, catching the fire Kurt doesn't mean to throw. "You're a little early, kiddo," Puck says, smiling as Kurt's eyes follow the flame dancing around his fingers.

Karofsky is all over the room. Puck spreads him around, just some more dust in the air.

Kurt's breathing deeply, trying to catch his breath. Puck wants to make him bleed, make him cry, claim him forever.

Azazel is dead. Lucifer is gone. Lilith died a year ago, all part of the plan. Sam Winchester slaughtered Alistair. Crowley is the (second) most powerful demon left and he'll probably take over Hell. Be too busy to track down a demon in a hick Ohio town, even if the last of Azazel's kids is here.

Except, Kurt isn't Azazel's. He's Puck's. So Puck says, "C'mon, let's get out of here," and carefully grabs Kurt's hand.

Kurt lets himself be led from the school, to a park not far from Puck's house. Puck tosses up a shield—nothing alive will bother them. Nothing will see them. They have all the time in the world.

Kurt asks questions, once he calms down. Puck even answers some of them. It'll be awhile before Kurt's comfortable with the idea of demons, of course, but Puck can be patient. He'll teach Kurt, and look out for him, and in a couple years, maybe less, Kurt will be his in all the ways that matter.

Puck may even let Kurt's loved ones live, just to show Kurt he cares.


	61. mythology 4

**Title**: the desert wind is rising

**Fandom**: Supernatural/mythology

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from Adrienne Rich

**Warnings**: pre-series; AUish

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 375

**Point of view**: third

**Prompt**: Supernatural, Gabriel/Sam, he's more Trickster than angel

* * *

Gabriel is different from other every angel (fallen and not) for a very good reason: he isn't one anymore.

o0o

It's not just the pranks. No matter what Zachariah and Uriel and all the other fun-lacking douchebags say, there _is _humor in Heaven. Look at giraffes and platypuses, for Father's sake.

Michael and Lucifer used to pull the funniest shit, back Before. Gabriel watched in awe, wishing he be could half so good.

He's better, now. It still hurts.

o0o

Coyote taught him, right after he first left. Treated him like a pup and showed him the ropes. Sent him off to Anansi for the final lesson. He didn't quite manage to trick the Spider, but he came damn close. Closer than anyone since Coyote left for his own territory, back when the world was young.

_We are old,_ Anansi says, spinning a web. _Older than you pretty birds think. Old as the land, as the sky. This is our world, the dirt and the water. When the time comes, warn your flock, little bird. Warn them._

Anansi is terrifying, sometimes. When the time comes, Gabriel forgets.

When the time comes, he hasn't been Gabriel in longer than he was.

o0o

Gabriel slips under the radar until the Winchesters. He's famous as Loki, trickster of the north. He does lunch with Coyote and Anansi twice a year. He's had an on-going relationship with Kali for three thousand years, and it's about to end in fire.

He wants to hate the Winchesters. He really does. And looking at them, at Sam's earnest expression and Dean's true regret (the first meeting), he realizes that no matter what anyone says, no angel can hate them.

Not even Zachariah, though he'll say otherwise.

o0o

In the end, Gabriel reclaims what was his in the beginning. He _is _an angel, one of the greatest. But he is so much more than that, and Lucifer… he is still an angel. Fallen, yes. Smart, oh yes.

But Lucifer is not a trickster.

Coyote howls and Anansi spins a web, and Loki pulls off the greatest trick yet: he makes Lucifer believe he killed his younger brother.

o0o

Kali summons every god left. Loki attends the meeting.

Lucifer killed the Archangel Gabriel.

Loki is no angel.


	62. Leverage 5

**Title**: beckoning a rage within

**Fandom**: Leverage/Supernatural

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from Adrienne Rich

**Warnings**: slightly AUish for Supernatural

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 165

**Point of view**: third

**Prompt**: Leverage/Supernatural; Hardison /or& any; Alec was one of Azazel's special kids, and sometimes... sometimes it shows.

* * *

The things Alec does with a computer are impossible. Thankfully, his team doesn't know. They're each experts in their areas—and sometimes he wonders what deals they made to get so good—but they really have no idea what he's doing, and what he shouldn't be able to do.

Azazel is dead. Alec never had to fight things out in Cold Oak. He's from the last generation, and he's the only one left.

He doesn't think about it anymore. Azazel is dead and Lucifer defeated and the world continues on. He sweet talks his baby and impossible things happen, and his team doesn't realize how lucky they are.

(There's a reason the marks never come after them. Nate shows off, reveals himself and the team, time after time after time. And nobody ever chases them for revenge. They think it must be Eliot's reputation, if they ever think about it at all.

Alec would have won in Cold Oak, if Azazel hadn't died.)


	63. mythology 5

**Title**: The truth must dazzle gradually or every man be blind

**Fandom**: Supernatural/mythology

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from Dickinson

**Warnings**: AU; spoilers for season 5

**Pairings**: pre-Sam/Gabriel

**Rating**: PG  
**Wordcount**: 295

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: Supernatural, Gabriel/Sam, they never found out he was anything other than a Trickster.

* * *

They meet up with other tricksters, little guys without much punch. All of them look at _their _trickster with wary eyes.

Coyote shrugs. "Some of us are more," he says, which doesn't explain a thing. "Me and Loki and Anansi - we're the big boys."

0o0

When Azazel's game almost kills Sam, Coyote yanks him away.

When Sam tries to go after Lilith, Coyote convinces him there isn't a single worse idea in the world.

When some douchebag _angel _of all things goes after Sammy, Coyote meets him head-on and the angel recoils.

"No mere _trickster_," the angel hisses, "could have so much power."

And Coyote... he looks cold. Dangerous. And he says, "Hello, Uriel," in a voice neither of the Winchesters has ever heard before.

"I am Coyote," their trickster says, standing in front of them, arms spread like wings. "I am Anansi. I am Loki. These boys are _mine_."

"No," Uriel murmurs. "It cannot be."

Coyote swings his arms in, hands slamming together in thunderous clap. Uriel howls, wind whipping into a frenzy around him, and when it dies down, the angel is gone.

"Holy fuck," Dean mutters, and Sam gingerly reaches out to touch Coyote's shoulder.

"s'alright," Coyote tells them quietly. "We need to go."

The brothers share a look. Coyote waits, staring into the distance. Dean nods and Sam smiles. "No mere trickster, huh?" Sam says.

Coyote says nothing. Sam uses his grip on Coyote's shoulder to gently turn him, and once their eyes meet, Sam says, "I'll ask again later. Will you answer?"

After a moment, Coyote nods.

"Good," Dean says. "Let's shag ass, get some ground between us and that douchebag."

Coyote smirks. Both Winchesters pretend not to notice how sad it looks, or the shadow of wings arching overhead.


	64. Leverage 6

**Title**: in my mind's graveyard, I am laying flowers at your unmarked feet

**Fandom**: Leverage/Supernatural

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from Betsy Sholl

**Warnings**: spoilers for season 6; bitter AU

**Pairings**: past-Dean/Eliot; past-Dean/Lisa

**Rating**: PG13

**Wordcount**: 560

**Point of view**: third

**Prompt**: Leverage/Supernatural, Team Leverage + Dean, AU after 5x22, Dean leaves Lisa's almost right away in spite of his promise to Sam, and the Leverage crew finds itself with an extra Hitter.

* * *

Dean just needs to hit something. All the time. And he promised Sam he'd get out of hunting, go to Lisa and live his fucking apple pie happily ever after. He'll do one of the three, and he'll be fucking pissed about it.

He hasn't talked to Eliot since that time in the place with the thing, but he _really_ needs to fuck something all to h—_up_, and Eliot always knows where there's a fight.

And Eliot tells him, voice rough through the phone, that he could use some help watching his team's back, since there's a bigass target painted on 'em now, so Dean signs up.

There's nothing supernatural about it. No angels or demons or hellpits swallowing baby brothers. Just douchebags he can break all to pieces, and it feels _so good_. They just point him in the right direction and get out of his way, and he doesn't have to make decisions or ask questions. Just his fists, and knives, and every now and then a gun, because Eliot still hates them, but sometimes it's the only way out.

For a year, he's not happy, not even close. Not content. But he's living. Nobody can ask for more than that.

Eliot's been giving him worried looks since he first got brought on board, but none of the rest of them, Eliot's makeshift family who don't have a clue about that time in the place with the thing, know how to even begin to tell that Dean's more broken than Parker. (He wonders about her sometimes, but he just doesn't have it in him to ask anymore.) But Eliot won't start that conversation (Sammy wasn't there for that time in the place with the thing. Sammy isn't here now. Half a dozen goons go down hard and won't ever be getting up.) and Dean doesn't care about anything but the ache in his fists and the twist of a blade and how his gun jerks in his grip.

He's so very broken, and he won't kill himself, but he'll sure as fuck let himself die.

And finally, finally, after a year of looking for Death and his white ring of hellpits, Eliot slams Dean into a wall and demands, "What the fuck have you been doin'?"

Dean scoffs and shoves him away, saying, "You care now?"

Eliot grabs him again, pushes him back against the wall. "This is my _team_, you bastard. You can't keep half-assin' things! You'll get 'em killed."

Dean just sneers. "You want me gone, let me know, Spencer."

Eliot pulls back, looks at him. Says quietly, "I want you gone."

He doesn't tell anyone goodbye.

If possible, things get worse. This time, no one's there to watch his back. He's wanted a dozen places for things he actually did this time. Castiel shows up once to reprimand him for disgracing himself this way, spitting on his second chance. (More like his fiftieth chance, but what's the point in counting anymore?) Dean just keeps sharpening his knives.

And then he's on the losing end of a fight with a djinn of all the damn things, and he's barely trying, and maybe he'll finally be able to die and _nothing _will bring him back.

And then there's Sam. Dean lets himself fall back, spread out on a dirty floor, and he laughs and laughs.


	65. Highlander

**Title**: they sicken of the calm who know the storm

**Fandom**: Highlander/Supernatural

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from Dorothy Parker

**Warnings**: pre-series for both; a smidge AU for Supernatural; mentions of torture, character death, and slavery;

**Pairings**: implied Gabriel/Methos

**Rating**: PG13

**Wordcount**: 635

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: Supernatural/Highlander, Gabriel + Methos, five times Methos meet him and one time Gabriel told him he was an angel

* * *

_i_  
He has been walking for so long it's all he remembers. The light comes and goes, and he walks. He walks and walks and walks, until his four legs become two as he rises, and he walks and walks until he sees other things like him.

Similar, but not the same, though he won't realize that for some time.

"Well, aren't you a treat?" a pale, winged thing says. "Haven't seen one like you before."

He keeps walking. The thing leaves.

_ii_  
He is attacked on the edge of the territory. His attacker is young; he sees that at a glance. Wielding a stick, the boy swings again and again, but compared to the four-legged beasts that have been trying since before his memory begins, the boy is disappointingly slow.

"You'll have to take his head," a carrion-eater says, ears pricked forward.

He puts the boy on his back and hits his throat with a good-sized rock until his head pops off.

"Remember that feeling," the carrion-eater says, slinking forward. It licks its chops, mouth open in a toothy grin. "You'll need it to survive."

He leaves the carrion-eater to his feast.

_iii_  
He is Death on a Horse, Methos the legend, Methos the monster, Methos the mask. His brothers are so young and think him the same, and they ride and they rule, out of the sun into the horizon.

One captive watches him with a smirk. "My lord," he calls to Methos, and Methos turns, Kronos following his gaze. "My lord," he says. "You've come a long way."

Methos just looks at him, at his toothy grin and the shadow of wings at his shoulder.

"You don't know your place," Kronos growls. Methos doesn't stop him from punishing the captive; the next day, another corpse is left on the dirt as they ride.

_iv_  
He is nameless, slave to the cruelest master in the land. It isn't penance; he was bored. So far, he hasn't learned anything he didn't already know, when it comes to dealing pain. His master is a babe in arms compared to who he once rode a pale horse.

A pretty slip of a thing curls up against him in the slave quarters. "I'm frightened," she whispers. "Can you help me escape?"

He looks into her eyes, seeing white and gold and a dawn he can't remember. "Just start running," he tells her softly. "Don't ever stop."

She touches his cheek, finger tracing a scratch that healed the moment he got it. "Haven't seen one like you before," she says, and kisses his forehead.

In the morning, she's gone. No alarm is ever raised.

_v_  
He is Benjamin, on trial for witchcraft. A dozen have already been executed by burning. He really hates burning.

Out the corner of his eye, he keeps seeing a shadow.

He is found guilty, of course, sentenced to die at sundown.

When night comes, they prepare him. Before the fire catches, a shadow rushes through, grabbing him.

"Silly man," the shadow says, setting him down by the ocean, far from any town. "You should be more careful."

The shadow leaves. He waits by the water till dawn, and then he starts walking.

_vi_  
"Well, now," a voice booms out behind him. "Ain't you a treat."

He raises an eyebrow, turning. The man grinning at him is short with dark hair and dark eyes, and he has wings of shadow. "I know you," Methos says.

"We've never been formally introduced," the man says, stepping forward. "I'm Gabriel." His grin broadens. "_The_Gabriel."

The wings flare out, filling the room. Only Methos sees them.

"Your daddy's got a message for you," Gabriel says. "You'll probably find it interesting."

"Yes," Methos muses, reaching for the closer wing, smirking at Gabriel's surprised sigh. "I suppose I will."


	66. Glee 2

**Title**: once upon a time

**Fandom**: Glee/Supernatural

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: spoilers for both series

**Pairings**: Brittany/Santana

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 100

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

Once upon a time, there was a pretty little girl with golden hair and she saw things no one else could, she heard things no one else did, and when the yellow-eyed man visited her dreams, he promised that she'd save the world someday.

_When?_ she asked.

_Someday_, he said.

So she waited and she grew, and when she was twelve, she watched the yellow-eyed man die.

She still saw things, she still heard things – like angels and demons and the roar of endings, and then –

_The __cage __is __shut. __We __are __saved_.

She smiled, and kissed Santana, and danced.


	67. Norse mythology

**Title**: take the sky, and everything else

**Fandom**: Supernatural/Norse mythology

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from Rebecca Wolff

**Warnings**: AU for SN; spoilers for season 6; inaccurate Norse mythology

**Pairings**: Loki/John Winchester, implied Dean/Castiel

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 285

**Point of view**: third

**Prompt**: Supernatural/Norse Myth, Gabriel/John, the fate of Gabriel/Loki's children

* * *

They can only help one of them - the wolf, bound in magical chains. Hel doesn't need them; Jörmungandr is happy ruling the seas; the twins gleefully work for Hel; Sleipnir is still Odin's chief mount and Loki is just too weak right now to take on Odin and win. (_Just a few more years_, he whispers into John's neck, wings around them both. _Just a few more years_.)

But the wolf. The wolf they can save, if they go about it quietly.

.

Dean's angel, juiced up from his latest upgrade (John has quit asking) turns out to be the linchpin. Only he can touch the chain without being zapped, so he grips it lightly, tells the wolf to be calmed, and pulls it away.

Sam chants the spell to shield them; John watches for any guards (especially that Heimdallr guy); and Dean touches his angel's shoulder when the angel sways, holding the chain that bound Loki's son.

"It is done," the angel says, dropping the chain at Fenrir's feet.

Fenrir surges up and Loki sweeps them all away, to one of Cas' safehouses.

.

It's a month before Fenrir has regained enough strength to learn how to change his shape. He hides as a wolf-hybrid, part of their team now, and he's fiercely protective of them all.

When the Æsir notice that the wolf is gone, they nearly tear the worlds apart looking for him, but they don't find him, or Loki.

(_Just a few more years_, Loki murmurs, fingers massaging Fenrir's ears. _Just a few more years, and your brother will be free, too.  
_  
Fenrir rests his head on Gabriel's knee, and John looks at Castiel, who nods before going to Dean.)


	68. Glee 3

**Title**: a land more kind than home

**Fandom**: Supernatural/Glee

**Disclaimer**: I made up an angel. The rest aren't mine. Title from Thomas Wolfe

**Warnings**: AUish for Supernatural; spoilers for up till the end of season 6; character death

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 650

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: Supernatural crossover. Kurt is a vessel. Kurt's mother didn't die when he was eight. She became a vessel for an angel. Years later, Kurt's mother is destroyed in the middle of a battle. The angel decides to go to Kurt as vessel, as the bloodline ends with him.

* * *

Kathryn dies in blinding light and Arianel flees her brother (_Castiel, Castiel, my brother, what have you become?_), flying across the cosmos in an instant.

Arianel is weak, her grace bleeding out through a score of minor cuts (_Castiel, Castiel, my brother, what have you done?_) and she collapses onto the dirt, burning it where she falls. She sighs, murmuring out a prayer – Father does not respond. Has not responded in… a very long time.

But she must rejoin the battle. She chose her side – the side of her brothers and sisters, the side she fought on during the Great Battle, when Sammael threw himself from Heaven to become Lucifer. Castiel has mirrored his journey, it seems, but refuses to submit. Instead, Castiel continues fighting, and he is so strong… so horrifically strong. Arianel knows that no angel left in any garrison can defeat him, not since Michael was pulled into the cage with Lucifer. Raphael, Gabriel, Uriel – even Zachariah. All gone. The greatest of the angels, destroyed. And no one left to equal Castiel, in all his magnificence and terror.

Arianel does not despair. She was created by Father, and her remaining brothers and sisters need her. But she must rest, and there is nowhere safe from Castiel (_oh my brother, my brother, what has happened to you?_) save resting deep inside a vessel.

But Kathryn (_oh, my sweet Kathryn, my friend, my home_) is dead. Arianel wishes she could go to Heaven and find the lovely woman who housed her for seven human years (eternity, and a single moment), but Castiel's forces guard the gates and Arianel would need to regain her strength before attempting to sneak in, and that would take a long time…

Kathryn had a son. Arianel had sworn to protect him; that, and her lingering, painful death from cancer had been the only reason she agreed to Arianel's request. Kathryn's son is the only person left of the bloodline that could house Arianel, and she has not thought of the child in – well, seven human years. Not since Kathryn said yes. She knew the child was healthy, and that was enough.

Gathering all the strength left to her, Arianel throws herself across the world. She collapses on a well-kept lawn, invisible to all except the possible vessel: Kurt, Kathryn's only child. And there he is, looking so much like his mother that Arianel aches.

"Holy shit," he whispers, staring down at her. He looks around, but thankfully no one else is there. Just Arianel and Kathryn's son, and she sighs in relief. Soon (_so soon, Kathryn, maybe I'll find you in him_)

_Kurt_, she says. _Kurt, I need you_. Gently, she puts all the knowledge in his mind. His mother, the war, all that is required of him now. She reaches out for him, her beloved Kathryn's child, her shelter from Castiel (_my brother, my brother, do you remember how it was in the beginning?_)

He pulls away. He stares at her, those ice-eyes glinting, looking so much like his mother. Except his mother's eyes were never so cold.

"No," he says, and turns away.

Arianel slumps down, watching him go, and mourns – Kathryn, and the garrisons gutted by war, and Castiel, always Castiel, _brother, I am so weary_.

And he is there, strong and fierce, a warrior from Heaven, the terrible lie Heaven has become.

_Sister_, he says. _I offer you now a choice. Come home with me._

_Or? _she murmurs, looking past him, at the bluest of skies (blue as Kathryn's eyes).

_Or perish here, Arianel_, he tells her gently, sounding as remote as Father ever has.

Arianel is tired, and aching, and wishes she could curl up in Kathryn, warm and safe and loved. Oh, Kathryn had been so wonderful.

_Please,_ she whispers. _Castiel… _

He smiles, and as the light flares, he says, _Be at peace, my sister_.

And Arianel rests.


	69. Avengers

**Title**: an angel and a god, sharing a peanut butter cup

**Fandom**: Thor/Supernatural

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: AUish for SN; spoilers for Thor; AU before the Avengers movie

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 240

**Point of view**: third

**Prompt**: Thor (2011)/Supernatural, Loki + Gabriel, "So you are the one who has been using my name."

* * *

"So, you're the one who's been usin' my name?" he asks, biting a Reese in half.

The pretty-boy godling blinks at him, not lowering his weapon. "How did you get in here?" he demands, and _something _pokes at Gabriel's mind. Coyote, Anansi, Loki - whoever he is today.

Maybe he's just a simple janitor. Hmm.

He shrugs. It doesn't really matter.

"Answer me!" the godling hisses. He sure does have a temper problem. The janitor looks closer. Not just a temper problem: an insanity problem, too. And a paternal/fraternal problem.

Awesome. The janitor knows just what to do with those.

"Come with me, kiddo," he says, holding out another - untouched - Reese.

The godling stares at him. "Are you mad?" he asks, that pretty accent adding something shivery to the words.

"Yup," the janitor says, shaking the Reese. "I know no one ever taught you not to take candy from strangers, so c'mon. Places to go, brothers to bother."

The weapon vanishes from the godling's hand and he hesitantly takes the Reese. Without letting his eyes drop, he nibbles at one side. Then he devours the rest in one bite, moaning, "Oh, my."

The janitor grins. "C'mon, kiddo," he says, holding out a hand. "I got a whole factory of those."

"If this is a trick," the godling starts.

"Yeah, yeah, hellfire and fury raining down, I know," the janitor interrupts. "Don't worry."

The godling takes his hand.


	70. XMen

Title: it's the war not us that's moving

Fandom: X-Men movieverse/Supernatural

Disclaimer: not my characters; title from Adrienne Rich

Warnings: pre-series for Supernatural

Pairings: none

Rating: PG

Wordcount: 570

Point of view: third

Prompt: Sam's power is a mutant power, not a demon power.

* * *

When Dean figures it out, he looks at Sam with wide eyes, mind a complete blank until Sam begs, "Don't tell Dad."

.

So, Sam's dreams sometimes come true. And while he's awake. That's not such a big deal. Yeah, his head hurts after _those_ dreams, but they're able to pass it off as migraines (which he's too young for, but Dad's got so much on his plate, he doesn't realize that) and nightmares.

The telekinesis, though… they can only hide that for so long.

.

"Two powers?" Dean grumps, crossing his arms and glowering at Sam. "That's not fair, dude. You're hogging 'em all for yourself."

"You want 'em?" Sam shoots back with his own glare. "Take them."

Dean rolls his eyes.

.

Sam's either too young or too old for his abilities to manifest; Dean's intel isn't all that clear. The more he researches, though, the happier he is Sam's powers are invisible. For a day, he considers taking Sam to New York, asking that school for help –

But no. Sam's his little brother, and he's not abandoning him anywhere. Sam's getting plenty enough training; Dean's woven it into their PT, and Dad's gone enough he doesn't notice.

For awhile.

.

On Sam's second hunt, when he's barely fifteen, he tosses a ghost away from where it had been hovering over Dean, digging its ghost-hands into his chest.

Dad doesn't react, then. He and Sam finish the hunt while Dean gasps for breath, hunched over and shaking, and Dad's silent all the way out of town, and for fifty miles after that.

Then he says, "What happened back there?"

Sam glances over at Dean. They're huddled together in the back seat, even though Sam's pretty sure they're too old for that now, and Dean's eyes are barely open. His body's still shuddering sporadically.

"What do you mean?" Dean asks anyway. Stubborn idiot. He'll keep trying to protect Sam while he's bleeding out or unconscious, but Sam's got power now.

"You know what I mean," Dad says, sounding – tired.

"I can… I'm a mutant, Dad," Sam blurts, ignoring Dean's fingers digging into his side, trying to make him shut up. They've been hiding and lying for almost four years, now, and Sam's practically perfected control. (Well, of the telekinesis, anyway. The visions still show up whenever they want.)

Dad sighs, low and sad. "Oh, boys," he whispers, shaking his head.

"You can't send him away!" Dean shouts, sitting up straight and gasping in pain, falling backwards.

"You _idiot_!" Sam snaps, gently guiding him back upright. "Stay _still_."

"Of course I'm not sending him away," Dad says once Dean's breathing is back under control. "We'll discuss this later."

Dean's eyes close as he slumps back against the seat. Sam rests a hand over his heart and feels it race.

.

Precognition, telekinesis – John wishes he could believe that's all it is.

But telekinesis doesn't bother ghosts. He's seen mutants try and end up dead. And after a little bit of questioning, it becomes obvious – to John, anyway, though considering what he hasn't told them, he can't blame the boys for not realizing – that all of Sam's 'visions' revolve around the fucker who killed Mary. Or other 'mutants' who survived a house-fire.

Dean's sacked out with Sam mostly asleep next to him, and John rests his head in his hands. Fuck.

Sammy's not a mutant. Life would be so much simpler if he was.


	71. Avengers 2

**Title**: Mother, I'm frightened of this thunder and lightning

**Fandom**: Supernatural/Avengers movieverse

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; title from Leonard Cohen

**Warnings**: future!fic for Avengers movieverse; AU mishmash for Supernatural (I've seen maybe five minutes of season 7); I gleefully resurrected a dead Supernatural character

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 1040

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: Avengers/Supernatural, Loki+Crowley, "I can give you the world. All it will cost is your soul."

* * *

He finds the godling perched on a mountaintop, gazing out across the horizon. Everyone who's anyone in their business had felt him the moment he materialized in their speck of the cosmos. The amount of chaos coiled in him is _breathtaking_. Crowley is truly envious of the brat.

"Hello, sweetie," he says, announcing himself with a flair even the Winchesters might have appreciated.

The godling ignores him.

Crowley frowns, crossing his arms across his meatsuit's chest. "Well, now, that's just rude," he mutters. He stares at the godling's back for a moment, waiting. "_Hello_," he repeats. "I'm the King of Hell, Lord of Deals – I can help you own this rock if you want." For a price, of course. He learned his lesson about doing things from the goodness of his heart with the Winchesters.

"I neither need nor want your aid," the godling drawls. His voice is flat and cold, and there's so much malice threaded through the words that Crowley shivers deep inside, in all that's left of what he was before Hell.

"You won't get this world without me," Crowley blusters through the fear. He went toe-to-toe with an angel hopped up on leviathans – this is just some child from another realm.

The godling turns his head, glancing over his shoulder. "I don't want this world, little thing," he says, gaze flicking up and down Crowley before he looks back at the sky.

"Then… why are you here?" Crowley asks.

The godling laughs, and dread crawls along Crowley's meatsuit's spine. There is something terrifying in that laugh, something that reminds Crowley of the knowledge that while Death was chained for the moment, eventually the chain would rust.

Who - _what_- is this child? Crowley had thought his kind just another breed of pagans, and Lucifer tore his way through those. Easy as demons, easy as humans.

"I'm here to play," the godling says, "and to rest."

Crowley has rarely been speechless. Staring at the godling, though, he can't think of a thing to say.

After a few seconds, the godling asks, "Is the pool of power on this rock so small you came to beg _me _for an alliance?" He scoffs. "I grow less enamored of this world all the time."

"Oy!" Crowley exclaims. "That's _my _rock you're insulting."

But the godling is right. Crowley blinks at him, realizing that's why he'd come here. Lucifer is caged, Castiel MIA, and the Winchesters back on their righteous crusade. The angels are confined to Heaven when not on specially mandated missions, and Crowley doesn't even know who took over the reins there. Death reclaimed all the Horsemen rings and went back to wherever he was when not chained by fallen angels or itty bitty mortal men who really hadn't the least idea what they were doing.

Out of everyone on Earth, in Hell, or in Heaven that Crowley has access to, this godling is the most powerful, and Crowly has no clue how to use him.

"Keep your rock," the godling says, "but get off my mountain."

"Right then," Crowley murmurs. He is not a moron, and he decides to get while the getting is good.

He might come up with a better plan, figure out what the godling really wants. Maybe. But maybe he doesn't really want the godling's soul. There's something off with the boy.

Yeah. Better to leave that one alone. Never let it be said Crowley doesn't learn.

.

(Loki watches the sun set, rise, and set again before he moves. The Asgardians do not yet know he is no longer in their cell. The Midgardians do not yet know he's returned.

His 'allies' will realize soon enough he's free, and he already knows they're on the way.

There is nowhere for him to go. No world that will take him. No one in any realm who wants him, or cares for him, or will help him.

He is so tired.

Between one breath and the next, someone is beside him, the only herald a flutter of wings. Loki flinches away, instantly crouched with knives in both hands.

"Hey, kiddo," the man says, shadow-wings on his back and a chocolate bar in his hand. "We've got some things in common, you know."

"I don't know," Loki hisses. "Who are you?"

The man smiles, small and warm. "I used to go by Loki," he says. "A few other things, too."

Narrowing his eyes, Loki rises to his full height, towering over the stranger. "Explain," he demands.

Instead, the man holds out the candy. "Want some?" he asks cheerfully.

Loki is never at a loss of words, but staring down at the little, winged man, his tongue loses its way. After a long, painfully silent moment, he pathetically says, "What?"

"Look, kid, I know that family's a bitch. Trust me, do I know _that_." He tears a piece of the chocolate bar off and shoves it into his mouth, continuing to speak even while he chews. "And it seems to me that you're at a bit of a loss for the moment, with nowhere to go and no one to turn to. I was like that once, a very long time ago."

"I am a thousand years old," Loki interrupts, grimacing at the pieces of chocolate on the man's lips.

The man laughs, free and loud. "Oh, little boy, I am _so _much older than that," he chortles. "I was ancient when Ymir crawled out of the mud."

Loki winces at the blasphemy, and the man holds out the chocolate again. "Take some," he entreats, face serious. "I mean it. I don't know what your plan is, if you even have one. But you're alone. And I'm alone." He shrugs. "I don't know if that All-Father fucker named you after me, or I took the name from you. But we both have family troubles, and we're both embodiments of trickery, so."

There has been no one Loki could actually trust for a long time. He had no true friends in Asgard, forever Thor's little tag-along. Then the Chitauri and their lord, pulling him from the abyssal void – seeming to be saviors, but so far from that.

He is so tired.

Loki slowly reaches for the chocolate.)


	72. Avengers 3

Title: no less a devil

Fandom: Supernatural/Avengers movieverse

Disclaimer: not my characters; title from Sylvia Plath

Warnings: future!fic for both? I have no idea what led to this point.

Pairings: none

Rating: PG  
Wordcount: 280

Point of view: third

Prompt: Gen or either Loki/Tony or Thorki is fine by me. Just. Something happens and Loki should've died or something else absolutely bad would've happened to him, Castiel saves him and Loki doesn't see why Castiel bothered.

* * *

He's alive. His eyes open and he lunges up, on his feet and knives in hand, before he realizes he should not have his knives, or his feet, or the air he's gulping down with great gasps.

"Be calmed, Loki," a soothing, soft voice says. "You are saved."

Saved? What is saved? He should be dead - he _was_ dead. He deserved death and all the torments there.

"What are you?" he demands, turning to the man - short, small, eyes as blue as the tesseract. There are wings at the man's back, of shadow and flame, and the man smiles, tucking them away.

"I am Castiel," the man says. "You are safe."

"What do you want with me?" Loki asks, fingers clenched around the knives he shouldn't have.

"You have a grand purpose," the man says. "You should not have been in the pit. Why do you doubt me?"

"Why do I doubt you?" Loki repeats with a scoff. What a stupid question. Does this man not know who he is? What he has done? "You must want something from me," he says. "I earned every moment of pain. You pulled me out for a reason. Tell me."

The man smiles again, so sadly it aches in the place where – were Loki anyone else – he might have a heart. "Good things do happen, Loki."

Loki rolls his eyes, vanishing his knives. "Not to me," he mutters, turning away. "I'll be going now."

"I will see you again, Loki," the man says. "Be good."

Loki laughs. He's alive, he's unharmed, and all his magic is intact. Clearly, his savior has no idea who he saved.

This will be fun.


	73. Thor

Title: to have written the truth in a lightning flash

Fandom: Supernatural/Avengers movieverse

Disclaimer: not my characters; title from Adrienne Rich

Warnings: pre-Thor – AU for Thor and everything that follows; AU during or after season 5 of Supernatural (or, possibly, before that)

Pairings: none

Rating: PG

Wordcount: 2075

Point of view: third

Prompt: Supernatural/Thor (2011), Dean + pre-movie!Thor, "You should be protecting your brother, not dragging him into trouble."

* * *

They're on Midgard, Thor and Sif and the Warriors 3 and Loki. They're on Midgard and Thor cannot believe how it has evolved since the last time - has it truly been long enough for the humans to change horses into metal beasts?

Apparently so. No matter.

Hogun finds the trail of their quarry, and the hunt is rejoined.

.

The hunt goes badly. There is no physical body for Thor to fight; Mjölnir does not even slow the monster, and Loki is everywhere, trying spell after spell. Only Loki can even slow the beast, of shadow and spirit, and he finally gets in the death blow – and he goes down with it, hard, without any warning.

No matter how loudly, how _desperately_, Thor shouts to the sky, Heimdallr does not open the Bifrost.

.

Loki worsens. Volstagg and Hogun, almost evenly matched with regards to battle wounds, do what they can, but it is not enough. Thor screams threats to the heavens, hefting Mjölnir, swearing vengeance, and Heimdallr does not respond.

Sif finally vanishes into the woods, going after a Midgardian healer. Fandral follows, promising Thor to find the best.

Loki's eyes are closed, his breathing shallow, and he is far too cold. "I cannot find a wound," Hogun solemnly tells Thor. Volstagg shrugs and shakes his head.

Thor kneels beside his brother, dropping Mjölnir, and whispers, "Heimdallr, please. Bring us home. Loki is dying."

The way remains shut. Loki's breath catches and he whimpers, low and sharp, and he flickers, for a moment, before he turns into a miniature frost giant.

"What?" Thor roars, lunging to his feet. "What sorcery is this – what curse?" He grabs Mjölnir, needing the reassurance of his hammer in his hand.

Hogun and Volstagg exchange glances. Loki – is it Loki? – still doesn't move.

.

Thor has progressed to pacing around Loki's prone form, Hogun and Volstagg still beside him, when Sif and Fandral return with two mortals. Both mortals seem young (of course) and carry weapons. The shorter looks over to the other, raising an eyebrow, and the other nods.

"So, y'all found the revenant?" the shorter asks, keeping his weapon in easy access.

"Is that what it's called?" Volstagg says, looking down at Loki. "It turned him – blue. And he hasn't moved."

The shorter man's other eyebrow raises as he follows Volstagg's gaze. "That's not normally what it does," he says. "Sammy, any ideas?"

Sammy's forehead wrinkles. He says, "That's… odd," tilting his head. He glances from Sif and Fandral, who have positioned themselves so that one blow cannot take them and the others, to Thor, then down to Loki, Volstagg, and Hogun, who is now standing, and also away from the rest. Then he looks back to Thor. "Can I get closer?" he asks. "I need to look him over. Revenants don't usually do this."

Thor looks from Loki to Sammy, and nods, shifting his grip on Mjölnir. Sammy's companion pins him in place with a warning look, his own grip on his weapon shifting. But Thor holds his peace as Sammy crouches down, setting his weapon on the ground next to him.

"Dean," he calls, "do you have any reception?"

Without looking away from Thor, Dean slowly reaches into his jacket. Thor can see Sif preparing herself, but Dean simply pulls out a small box and flips it open. "Nope," he says, popping the P sound. "Surprise, surprise."

Thor turns to watch Sammy, who has undone Loki's shirt and is touching his chest. "You dare!" he shouts, hefting Mjölnir.

"Hey!" Dean shouts in return, and his weapon roars, and something throws Thor back.

Sif, Fandral, and Hogun should all be on Dean for that, but none of them move. Once Thor regains his feet, he demands, "What sorcery are you wielding?"

Dean smirks. "My brother's helpin' your blue friend," he says. "Be grateful and let him."

"That blue beast was my brother," Thor says after a moment, and another glance at his friends, who all look panicked about the eyes and can't seem to move. Not even Loki, at his most angry, could hold them all at the same time. One of the humans is a truly powerful sorcerer. "The monster did something – "

"No, actually, it didn't," Sammy interrupts him. "Or, well, not exactly."

Volstagg clears his throat. "Could you perhaps explain that?"

"Yeah," Sammy mutters, not looking at him. "Give me a moment." Sammy's eyes seem to be white, for just a moment, like the snow-covered ground of Jötunheimr, and unlike any sorcerer Thor has ever encountered.

"Huh," Sammy finally says, settling back on his haunches. "Dean, can you call Castiel? I need him to check something for me."

Thor glances over in time to see Dean roll his eyes. "The two'a ya really should work out your differences," he mutters, before lifting his head and addressing the sky. "Hey, Cas! We could use your expertise for a sec. Could you pop over, please?"

Suddenly, there is something else in the forest with them. It appears to be a mid-sized human male, pale skinned, dark hair, blue eyes, but that is _wrong_. It is so much bigger than that, older and powerful, and Thor wants to cower back, for one humiliating instant he truly does, and instead he throws himself between his brother and the monster, and the monster _smiles_.

"Do not be afraid, Thor, Son of Odin," the monster says gently. "I am not here for you."

Thor shudders.

"Come look at this," Sammy calls, and the monster – Castiel? – walks over silently, kneeling down next to Sammy. He pushes the weapon away, and Volstagg shrinks back.

Thor and his friends have withstood monsters in five realms; these Midgardians cannot be mortals. Sammy is too powerful a sorcerer, and Dean commands – whatever the beast is.

"It looks like the revenant tore through something," Sammy says. "It's still draining him. If I sever it, he might die. Do you – "

"I see," Castiel murmurs. He reaches out and Thor cannot help his instinctive move. He also doesn't see Dean dart forward, but he feels Dean's strong, unyielding grip on the arm holding Mjölnir.

"Hey," Dean says. "I get that he's your brother. Little, right? Don't worry. We're really not here to hurt you. We actually owe the little guy."

Thor considers his words very carefully, taking his time to gather his thoughts. Whoever, _whatever_, these beings are, they clearly have the upper hand. "I thank you for whatever assistance you can give," he says. "I am Thor, Prince of Asgard. We hunted a beast – I know not if it is the thing that cursed my brother."

"Your brother is not cursed," Castiel tells him; Thor turns to see Castiel with fingers spread across Loki's face. "The revenant ripped a glamour from him, one he has worn for a thousand years." Light, brilliant and pure, flares beneath his palm and into Loki, pulsing from the top of his head to his feet, and Loki's body arches up, eyes flying open as he _screams_.

Thor cannot do nothing, not while Loki is in such pain. He wrenches away from Dean and lunges for Castiel – but before he can grab the creature, something pulls him back, and to his knees, and holds him there. Thor struggles with everything he has; he summons Mjölnir, but Mjölnir does not answer, and Loki screams and screams –

And falls silent, again unmoving on the dirt. Still blue.

Volstagg is pale and shaking, but he reaches out to touch Loki's hand. "He warms," Volstagg whispers, something between awe and fear in his voice.

Castiel stands and turns to look down at Thor. "He is your brother, Son of Odin, Prince of Asgard," the creature says. "There was a powerful glamour on him, but not of his making. He will be fine, but his magic will be slow in returning."

"Why… why is he blue?" Thor asks, eyes darting between Castiel and his brother, so still, so silent.

"You should ask your father," Castiel says, in that same gentle tone from when he first appeared. "But it is not Loki's fault." Castiel reaches out, and though Thor tries to dodge, tries with every muscle in his body, Castiel's hand alights softly on Thor's brow. "Be calm, young prince," Castiel murmurs. "All is well."

Something pulses through Thor, something cold and bright, and then –

Then he is in Father's throne room, with his friends and his brother – still blue – and Father is gaping at them. "What is this?" he demands, standing, Gungnir in hand.

"We found 'em," Dean says, sounding so flippant, so daring. "You should tell your kids to be more aware of what they hunt – and whose sacred places they follow it to." He pauses, and Thor can hardly dare to look at him, still on his knees, but Dean is smirking, such an insouciant smirk, and he adds, "You should also explain why one of 'em is blue."

Thor cannot look up, cannot meet his father's eyes. Cannot glance over, cannot check on his friends.

But he can look at Loki, who is finally – oh, finally, at long last – beginning to stir. Volstagg staggers to his feet before bowing, stumbling to the Warriors and Sif, still frozen by Dean, or Sammy, or Castiel. And Sammy places a hand on Loki's chest, leans over to murmur, and Loki ceases all movement, registering that an unknown threat is present.

And, according to Castiel, Loki's magic is gone. Will it come back?

"Hello, Odin," Castiel says. "Your children and their companions are returned to you."

"I thank you," Father replies, after a long pause.

"Oh, don't be too grateful," Dean says, still smirking, but it's sharp now. Like Loki's, when someone has gone a step too far, unaware that offense has been caused. Thor has come to know that smirk well, and regrets each time it appears.

"All-Father," Sammy says as he stands, and he's so large for a Midgardian. He might even be taller than Thor.

Thor glances up, watches in horror and wonder as Father actually lowers his head to the strange Midgardians.

Sammy's eyes are white again. A quick glance at Dean reveals his are yellow, for a moment, before he blinks and they're hazel.

Castiel steps away from Thor, going to Dean's side. Sammy joins them on Dean's other side. "We'll be heading out now," Dean says. "But you." He points at Thor. "You, take better care of that kid, y'hear? He's a good kid." He glances over at Loki, and Thor wants to look, make sure Loki's better, healing, but Dean meets his eyes again. "Watch his back, Thor. He's your little brother. He's yours to protect."

Thor nods. "I swear that I will not squander the gift you have given me," he says.

Dean smiles, and the three of them are gone.

"Thor?" Loki whispers, and Thor is at his side in a moment, checking him for any hurt, any wound, anything at all. He doesn't even care Loki is blue. "What happened?" Loki asks, eyes on Thor's face.

"You saved us," Thor tells him. "And when you – you fell, Loki, you fell and something was wrong, something was stealing your strength, and, I don't know who or what they were, but-"

"Thor," Father's voice rings out. "I must speak to your brother. You and your friends are dismissed."

Loki's fingers clench in Thor's sleeve. Thor can see both their breaths. _Oh, Loki_, he realizes. _My brother._A jötunn.

_He's your little brother. He's yours to protect._

"No, Father," Thor says without looking away from his brother. "My friends will depart – but I am where I need to be."

Father growls. Thor does not care.

Loki nearly died tonight. And if Father is about to reveal such a terrible secret – well. Loki must know Thor still loves him.

He can almost hear that strange Midgardian say, _Good boy_, but Loki has just realized his hands are blue, and Thor can see the panic rising. A panicked Loki is never good for anyone.

"Loki," Thor says, ignoring the Warriors 3 and Sif as they leave. "Loki, look at me."

Loki's eyes are red, his skin almost too cold to touch and the same blue as Castiel's fathomless gaze. "Thor," he says, "What – "

"Loki," Thor says again. "You are my brother. I am yours. What matters but that?"

Loki's eyes are red, but he is still _Loki_. And what matters but that?


	74. Avengers 4

Title: one angel in another's hell

Fandom: Supernatural/Avengers movieverse

Disclaimer: not my characters; title from Shakespeare

Warnings: spoilers for Avengers; future!fic or Supernatural; possibly AUish for Clint's backstory; character death; mentions of violence and child abuse; mentions of substance abuse

Pairings: unrequited Clint/Coulson

Rating: PG

Wordcount: 1005

Point of view: third

Prompt: Supernatural / Avengers Movie, Crowley & Hawkeye, "We both know that you will go to hell, when you are done up here."

* * *

Clint's never made a deal. The fortuneteller back at Carson's, Helena, she warned him off it right before everything went sideways and ended with a month in the hospital he couldn't pay for and another home gone.

Helena had smiled at him, taken his hands in hers, and said, in that creepyass voice he'd thought was fake, _Stay away from the crossroads, little hawk. You'll never find what you seek, if you take the deal._

He learned about crossroads later, after an op gone so wrong only he lived. And then he didn't, falling eyes wide open into the criminal underworld when he'd have been blamed for the whole FUBAR'd thing.

For a second, looking at the grinning old man, listening to the rattle of his bones and gasp of his breath, Clint thought about undoing the whole thing. Just a little deal and erase the whole mess. Get his men back. Fuck, go back even farther and get his brother back, or his parents. Get his dad out of the bottle, and Mama away from her pills. Have a real family.

But he remembered Helena, and instead of saying a thing, he watched the old man die.

And as the years passed, as he hit the big-time and got snapped up by SHIELD, as he brought in the Black Widow instead of putting an arrow through her eye, as he became a cloudy-eyed minion and mourned what he never had with Phil, as he dreamed of his ex-god – he never made a deal. Thought about it more than once, but never went to a crossroads and buried a box and waited for a demon, never sealed anything with a kiss or heard hounds howl.

He never forgot Helena's words.

But there's a demon standing in front of him, with a slick Brit accent and a smirk, and he says, "Come now, sweetheart – you know how it ends. Why put off the inevitable?"

Tasha talks about red in her ledger, and debts, and how cruel old men tried to make her into the perfect weapon. She's sure that if she does enough good it'll all balance out, somehow.

Clint knows better. Maybe the difference is, he doesn't really care about wiping the slate clean. He lost that drive in a bottle when he was a kid, in the pills always underfoot, in a beating when another father turned on him. He doesn't owe anyone a debt. He's owed.

He could've been a better man, like Phil. He could try and balance the scales, like Tasha and Stark and even Banner.

The best thing he can say? He's never made a deal. Never sold himself to Hell to fuck up the natural order. Things happen for a reason – Helena said that, too.

But now there's a demon, and the demon drawls, "You know, boyo. You've always known in your heart of hearts, haven't you?"

He's the only Avenger left standing, and he's standing at a crossroads.

Taught by a criminal, honed by Special Forces, wielded by SHIELD and a mad alien-god, trusted by the Earth's greatest…

They're all dead, Tasha and (Phil's) Captain America and Banner and Stark and Thor. Loki collapsed beside him, after appearing out of thin air and slaughtering the remaining fuckers, and didn't move until he was dragged away, silent but shaking.

They're all dead except for Clint, standing in front of a demon, moon high in the sky at midnight.

Helena would smack him across the face. She always got pissy when people didn't heed her advice.

"Well?" The demon claps his hands together and smirks wide. "Let's make a deal." He walks a circle around Clint, not even twitching the dust at their feet. "What do you want, and how long am I willing to give you for it?"

Clint looks at him. He's spent three years assessing his team, ten assessing SHIELD, and a lifetime assessing all the still-breathing corpses shuffling around and pretending to live. And in the fifteen hours since his team fell and Loki got buried so deep nobody could find him, Clint's been figuring out what went wrong.

He's not a good man. Maybe he had a chance, once, but he lost it, bleeding on the floor.

So he smiles at the demon, his brilliant, showman smile, the one little old ladies love and enemies underestimate, and he says, "Change one point in history and take me now."

"Hmm," the demon says, spinning on his heel to face Clint. "And which point might that be?"

Doors open both ways. Loki crawled into his heart and remade him, and Clint dreamed about a thousand-year childhood for six months. He didn't see everything, but he saw enough.

Clint's assessed it all. So he's sure when he tells the demon, "Have Loki be banished with Thor."

The demon chuckles. "Clever boy," he purrs, and pulls Clint in, and drags him all the way down.

Clint's not a good man. He was always going to Hell, and he's always known it. And he doesn't believe in evening the scale and settling balances, or repaying debts. He's been a weapon his whole life, and all that ever changes is who wields him.

He knows he won't remember himself long, whatever the demon has planned, but he figures there'll be some way to survive. There always is.

Just before the demon pulls away, he mutters into Clint's mouth, "We'll have fun with you, archer. You might even be a defter touch than the Righteous Man."

And then the world goes quiet, goes white-hot bright, and Clint's chest burns, and there's howling, so much howling –

And Clint inhales sharply, gaze flicking unerringly to the demon, who says, "My parlor, love. Be a dear and step in."

Clint laughs. "I've met the spider, bucko," he drawls, drawing even with the demon. "She's got a finesse you don't."

"Ah, give it time," the demon chuckles. "Now, c'mon. There's a rack I need to strap you to. See how long you last."

Clint follows him.


	75. Percy Jackson

Title: Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun

Fandom: Supernatural/Percy Jackson and the Olympians

Disclaimer: not my characters; title from WH Auden

Warnings: a fair bit of crack? AU. Picks up towards the end of season 5.

Pairings: none

Rating: PG

Wordcount: 495

Point of view: third

Prompt: Supernatural/Percy Jackson, Sam + Dean (+ Adam), Sam and Dean find out (or AU already knew) that they're sons of Hermes (bonus for Luke!Adam)

* * *

Mary Campbell's father was not Samuel Campbell. Of course, not even Deanna, Mary's mother, knew that.

Only one person (well, two, if Joshua by the tree counts) knew that divine blood coursed in Mary's veins, and Mary grew up a hunter instead of a thief.

That's alright, though. Her sons were thieves. Good ones, too.

.

Dean Winchester isn't aware that he's a better-than-usual thief, or that he skates by on the skin of his teeth, or that all his last-minute-escapes aren't always down to learning-by-doing.

Sam is. What Sam isn't sure of is _why_.

.

Dean and Sam meet their little brother after he's been resurrected (like Dean) and figure out straight-away that he's not the _gosh darn, so good to meet you! _ghoul they'd known.

Adam's a punkass smartmouth who isn't in awe of them. He's _annoyed _with them. He fits right in.

Also, his dad isn't John Winchester.

Oops.

.

"Why is that I have to die - twice! - to get any family other than my mom?" Adam yells at the sky. "Huh, oh great and power lord of thieves? Where the fuck were you! I went to your fucking training camp and I did exactly what should've made you proud! But you cast me out, back into - into, fucking apple pie and _normalcy_, and it was grand, you fucker! It was fucking _grand _until it got me killed!"

Dean and Sam look at each other, then at Castiel, who doesn't actually shrug, but Dean gets that impression, anyway.

Adam ignores them to keep shouting at clouds. "What do I have to do!" Now it sounds like he's holding back tears, and all Dean wants is to make everything better. But he can't.

"Aren't we being easy-to-find?" Sam murmurs to Castiel. "I mean - this is pretty obvious."

"No," Castiel replies. "Adam will not be found unless he prays specifically to an angel."

Dean and Sam share another look. "You found him," Dean says.

Castiel doesn't actually smirk, and Adam turns on a dime to glare at him. "Oh, you _fucker_," he hisses, and stalks over to punch Castiel right in the mouth.

.

So Adam isn't Dean and Sam's little brother. He's actually their uncle.

And Castiel –

"Were you ever an angel?" Dean demands with a glare. "Have I ever actually met _Castiel_, angel of that fucking douchebag God?"

Not!Castiel, whose name Adam still hasn't said, actually _does _smirk. It's creepy. "Surely if Gabriel can take a leave of absence and go play with the pagans, I can, as well?"

Dean shudders, because Castiel sounding sarcastic is friggin' _frightening_.

"So, what's your pagan name?" Sam asks.

It's Adam who snarls, "_Hermes_."

.

So, two pagan gods, two hunters, and a one-time lightning thief walk into a bar.

"Bro!" Loki hollers, pulling Hermes into a massive hug. "How's it shakin', dude? I'm glad you dropped the undercover gig – it was gettin' annoyin'."

Hermes hugs him back, laughing.

Dean and Sam share _another_ look. Adam rolls his eyes.


	76. Buffy the Vampire Slayer 2

Title: Xander's type

Fandom: Supernatural/Buffy the Vampire Slayer

Disclaimer: not my characters

Warnings: AU for both series; post-BtVS and I know nothing of the comics

Pairings: pre-Jo/Xander

Rating: PG

Wordcount: 85

Point of view: third

Prompt: Buffy/Supernatural, Xander/Jo, the need to fight evil things.

* * *

Xander's type is girls not even half his size who can kick his ass. This one, tiny and blonde and _loud _reminds him so much of Buffy it hurts.

But she's not Buffy. She's sharp and hard in ways Buffy wasn't until the end, and she holds that rifle on him until Xander passes every test, and then she smiles at him, all dangerous and lovely, and she says, "Jo."

"Xander," he says, and already knows he'll die for her, if she'd let him.


	77. Highlander 2

Title: by the pale light of the blooded moon

Fandom: Supernatural/Highlander/Arthurian legend

Disclaimer: not my characters

Warnings: takes place season 2/early season 3 of Supernatural; AUish for Supernatural

Pairings: none

Rating: PG

Wordcount: 320

Point of view: third

Prompt: Supernatural, any hunter(s) + any supernatural creature, "Burn me? That's your answer... Burn anything you're afraid of. Burn anything you can't control."

* * *

"Burn me?" he asks gently. "That's your answer? Burn anything you're afraid of... burn anything you can't control?" He laughs, softly at first, but it rises, cold and sharp as a knife. It ends suddenly as his eyes focus on the petty little man with his petty little fears. "What is your name, hunter?"

"Gordon Walker," the man says, fingers tight around his blade.

Blade. Not the best weapon to choose this night, beneath a blooded moon.

He smiles at the man; Walker tries not to flinch. "Why do you hunt me, hunter?"

"You're a monster," Walker says simply, so courageous, so unbending. "Monsters gotta be put down."

He laughs again, colder, sharper. "Better than you have tried, hunter." He looks around the circle of men, armed with silver and blessed weapons, armed with paltry spells and righteousness.

One weapon could kill him, if used by the right person. None of these men are that person, and none of them hold that weapon.

"I survive," he tells them quietly. "I grow stronger. And one day, I shall consume nations. One day, I will reap the world." He spreads his hands. "You cannot touch me, little hunters."

Death is in the circle without a whisper, a frail man in a suit, standing tall beside his son. With a wave of his hand, a flash of his ring, all die in a moment.

Walker alone remains, staring down at his companions. "You die elsewhere," Father informs him with a dismissive gesture. "Leave now."

Walker drops his weapon and flees. Laughter follows him.

.

"Playing with mortals again?" Father asks him.

"I go by Methos now," he says. "I've been back for – oh, a couple hundred years."

Father laughs. "I like the name. I'll release your king soon; the time is almost right."

"Thank you," he says, smiling at the pale mare cantering along the shore. Father claps him on the shoulder and is gone.


	78. Highlander 3

Title: I've heard the breathless beat of angels' wings when the bullets fly and the sabers swing

Fandom: Supernatural/Highlander/mythology

Disclaimer: not my characters; title from John Popper

Warnings: spoilers for SN season 5

Pairings: none

Rating: PG

Wordcount: 305

Point of view: third

Prompt: any, any/any,

_So many things that I wanted to say  
Forever left untold  
I still remember the tears that you shed  
Over someone else_  
(HAMMERFALL, "The Fallen One")

* * *

They meet up every few hundred years, beside a stream or in a tavern or walking down a road that doesn't exist. They chat, catching up and sharing jokes and arguing for the sake of it. A few hours every few hundred years, and it's enough.

For a very long time, it's enough.

.

They've told each other a thousand names, none of them truer than the rest. Every name is who they are, who they've been, who they'll one day be.

This day, his name is Eshu and his companion is Adao; it's storming and they're standing on a beach.

This day, Adao is furious and spends the first hour of their meeting shouting into the wind, cursing and screaming, and Eshu waits.

"My brothers are dead," Adao finally says, voice hoarse and fists clenched. "There was no other way and now they are gone." He closes his eyes, shuddering, wrapping his arms around himself. "And I can't even avenge them," he murmurs, words almost stolen by the storm. "I'd have to destroy myself, and even for my brothers, even for those children…"

He turns to face Eshu, desperately demanding, "You understand, don't you, that I won't destroy myself for anyone?"

"Of course I do," Eshu assures him, not reaching out to hold him because Adao would not accept it right now.

Adao turns back into the storm; Eshu stays at his side until the storm blows out.

They go their separate ways until the next meeting.

.

(Lucifer kills Gabriel without hesitating.

Death's son pulls Gabriel back from his father's grip, and Father lets the angel go with a smirk because he's always had a soft spot for tricksters.)

.

In a few hundred years, Heyókȟa thanks Maitias. Maitias simply shrugs and smiles, saying, "Knock knock."

Heyókȟa laughs, long and loud, before asking, "Who's there?"


End file.
